


Vibes

by tiani_j



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, pretty much… it's been five months and I've written nothing new for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5669233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiani_j/pseuds/tiani_j
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which ruined evidence is the final straw in a certain detective’s lack of office skills. Cue a department-provided tutor.</p><p>Tutors are the absolute worst, right? After criminals, of course. Especially the ever-present, not-convicted kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Talks and Triangles

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: 19/11/17, for the uninitiated: this is hardly ever updated and ~~I know it isn't, but~~ 90% of this fic feels old to me, and not how I currently write, etc., etc.. So, while I seriously appreciate constructive criticism in general, I think/hope some of the con-crit that might come from the first… 12 or 15 (?) chapters of this is stuff I've since heard from other sources. So if you catch me not replying to comments in a reasonable time, or at all, it's probably because I didn't read them, which sounds bad, but it's to do with never-reading-my-old-writing. The feedback applies to the old writing, so. This fic is only still out there because I know there are people who enjoy new updates thanks to kind comments and that little subscriber number. I plan to take out all the translations and replace em with less-dumb lines or italics of the intended meaning, but I honestly don't know when I'll get around to it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake fights with five-year-olds. A perp gets tackled. A stuck-up tutor makes an appearance. Gina gives some excellent advice.
> 
> All in a day's work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes the events of season two, without the finale, pretty much. I haven't seen any of season three because of where I live sooooooo.
> 
> The tutor thing is from Season 01, Episode 12: Pontiac Bandit; Captain Holt says if Jake needs a tutor, one will be provided by the department. [set at the end of S2, with slight alterations] The rest of the story just sort of happened I don't know.

**3:47 pm - Friday**

“I don’t see why I have to be here for a talk about the axe-murder case. Boyle and I caught the guy when he went back to where the murder was actually committed. He was trying to take the murder weapon, which,” Jake does a sort of 'duh' gesture with both hands, “was in the playground at that park upstate.”

“Yes, I'm aware you had to wrangle the axe from children who had found and tried to hit each other with it,” Holt says, leaning back in his chair slightly, “while Boyle tackled the killer directly in front of a group of mothers.” 

\- 

Jake recalls the incident from several days ago very well; it had been a small, grassy park in upstate New York they'd found out the victim had frequented with his son before they moved closer to the city. It may have taken the better part of half an hour, but he and Boyle had found the patch of grass with a small pool of dried blood, partially licked away by the Doberman they had to help the owner of which wrangle away from the now-crime-scene. 

Then, whoops and yells from the playground made the police look away from the dog to see two five-year-olds had just discovered a tomahawk of some sort underneath the castle of the play area. Mothers stepped up from their seated chatting, moving to intervene, while a man in a camouflage jacket about twenty feet to the left of the police ran towards the street. 

Boyle and Jake ran towards both problems, both yelling that they were NYPD, and to stand back. Through some almost indecipherable hand motions, Jake had 'hand-signalled' that he was going to get the weapon, while Charles was to chase down the runner. 

The children had quickly grown fond of the tomahawk, it had seemed, for when Jake finally reached the three children fighting over it, they hadn't wanted to listen.

“I'm a police detective,” Jake said to the kids, grabbing holding the only part of the handle, just before the blade, without chubby little hands holding on for dear life. “C'mon, gimme.” 

“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” one of the kids spat. 

Jake's eyes went wide, memories of similar playground incidents clearly coming to mind. And then, he remembered the number one thing he had over the children; a gun. And then, when that idea was clearly not the best one to use, he remembered the other thing he had over children nowadays; height. Trying not to cut his hand on the blade, Jake hauled the small axe upward, children in tow. The strain of the action clearly showing on Jake's face, two of the kids laughed. But by the time the axe was about five feet in the air, the top-holding child dropped, taking the others with him. 

Perhaps Jake's victory laughter had been a little much. 

Boyle, meanwhile, had kept up with the runner - who was thankfully about as equally as slow as himself - up until the group of mothers hovering by the edge of the playground, waiting until the axe situation was over and they could grab their children. But then the runner seemed to gain more speed - adrenaline, had to be - just by the parents, and Boyle had leapt forward to tackle the probable killer. 

The parents looked beyond horrified, but apparently only by that their children had almost been impaled by a tomahawk, and rushed around slash over Boyle and the runner he was trying to handcuff. 

Jake was thus bowled over by way more parents than there were kids, he thought, as they scooped up their kids, accidentally knocking the detective so he fell, hitting his back on the playground steps. 

\- 

Jake folds his arms petulantly, and winces at the pain still present in his back from colliding with the steps.

Rosa rolls her eyes, then looks to Holt. After the near-disaster that was Wuntch trying to get rid of Holt - she caved when she saw the letter, and has backed off since - everyone is trying to get the precinct to its best. It's somewhat reminiscent of when Captain Holt first came to the nine-nine, with a little more understanding.

“You filed the murder weapon incorrectly. If Detective Diaz hadn't checked, it would have either been lost, or considered void,” he says, usually monotone voice laced with annoyance. “All because it was numbered in Roman numerals.”

“So? It shouldn’t have _been_ in Roman numerals. Are you sure I got it wrong? I is one, X is ten, L is eleven, and then M is million-” Jake lists, dropping the folded arms to count off each translation on his fingers, simply waving his hands at 'million'.

“You are getting a tutor, and that is final,” Holt interrupts Jake’s rambling, “to help with math, organisation, and anything else that may confuse you. Your desk is disgusting, as is your locker. There's always rats, fermented food, or simple trash. Remember the pictures? And the desk-mice?”

“They were my friends,” Jake says earnestly.

“You messed up, okay?” Rosa says, “And you need to deal with it. You’re a good cop, but you could be better. Not everything will just magically work itself out in twenty minutes. Do you know how much of an hour that is?”

“A third, duh, I’m not _stupid_ ,” Jake retorts, hoping that is indeed the right answer.

“Although I mentioned the messes, this tutor will not be your maid, and you are not to ask any such things of them,” Holt says, before Rosa can reply to the 'stupid' claim, “You will, however, get to choose your tutor, from the ones the department sends. And no, you cannot send every one of them back.”

“How many can I send away?” Jake asks, suddenly very interested.

Holt frowns at Jake sternly. “I have already spoken to the necessary contacts, and they will be sending a tutor on Monday morning. From there, sessions will be an hour after you finish your shifts, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. If progress is too slow, that will increase to daily lessons.”

Jake rolls his eyes, and walks out of Holt's office. He makes a beeline for his own desk, slumping in his chair as soon as he can. He was ecstatic when the captain had found a way to remain at the nine-nine, and nervous but excited with what was happening with Amy. They'd dated for a few weeks, around a month or so, actually, much to the excitement of Boyle, who shipped it with fervour.

And then Jake had met Lisa. Online, technically, through a dating app Jake had forgotten was on his phone. She was genuinely sweet, and eager to simply be friends. Jake had figured, what the hell, having friends outside of work would be good, if he and Amy broke up.

It wasn't really because of Lisa that Jake broke it off with Amy. It wasn't weird at work, at first, with Amy. They'd been friends for years, work colleagues and all that, and talking was easy. But on the one-month anniversary, when Amy brought up living situations while they were leaving work, Jake lost it.

He knows it was cowardly to not just talk about it, but he hadn't been in a serious relationship in years, and brains don't function well without sleep. So outside, by their cars, Jake explained he just didn't want the relationship anymore, didn't like where it was going, 'it's not you, it's me', and all that.

But they've put all this behind them, of course. That was February, this is November, and Jake's been dating Lisa for five months, lived with her for almost one. Things change all the time, and out of all the unwelcome surprises, maybe the tutor won't be so bad. Well, Jake hopes it won't be.

-

**9:03 am, Monday**

Monday is most certainly unwelcome the second Jake sees the tutor is already there. Years at the same precinct, and self-proclaimed amazing police work, mean he can see who it is as soon as he steps off the elevator.

There’s a middle-aged woman with a clipboard hovering by his desk, not exactly pacing, but instead shuffling around slightly in her puke-plum pumps.

Jake reaches for his phone, loudly proclaiming, in a stilted voice, “I am answering a phone call.”

“With your wallet?” Amy asks, cocking her head to the side condescendingly. A double take informs Jake that he is indeed holding his black leather wallet to his ear. He stuffs it back into his pocket with clear anger.

He stomps toward his desk, set on not acknowledging the middle-aged woman in the maroon skirt-suit. She just has a mean facial expression, really, as well as an imposing stance. She looks disappointed and haughty and-  


“Ah, Detective Peralta,” she says, “nice to meet you.” She shifts her clipboard to the crook of her left arm, and extends her right hand.

Jake shakes her hand begrudgingly, simultaneously dumping his bag on the floor next to his rolling chair.

“There’s been a mistake. I don’t need a tutor,” he says, nonchalant.

The woman raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow, and retracts her hand. “Are you very sure?”

“Yep,” Jake says, shrugging off his leather jacket and trying to set it on the back of his rolling chair. It misses and crumples on the floor.

“What about one who can help with your inept depth-perception?” the tutor laughs.

Jake shoots her a petulant look. “I don’t need a tutor,” he repeats, “I made a mistake, and I’ll work on that. I have more important things to worry about. Like, you know, murder, arson, jaywalking, _tricycle theft_ -”

“Not if it means you ruin a case,” Holt says, having practically snuck up behind Jake, leaving adequate personal space, of course. “Please, just try your best, today. You are simply meeting Mrs. Triad before the lesson this afternoon.”

The afternoon thing is another part of this deal Jake isn’t so happy with. Lisa says she knew what she was getting into, dating a cop, with the work hours and all. But Jake gets the feeling it's sort of getting to her, now that they're living together - along with her roommate, so she's not really alone - they don't see each other as much, ironically. Tutoring in the afternoons is _not_ going to help.

“Well, you seem like a perfectly functional human being, Triangle, but I’m going to have to kindly decline,” Jake sits down, almost missing the chair as it tries to dejectedly roll away.

“My name is _not_ Triangle,” Mrs. Triad says.

Jake scoffs.

“I shall be back at four o'clock,” Mrs. Triad proclaims, “I will do an assessment of what needs work, and provide a corresponding course outline.”

Jake shudders inwardly, both at the woman, and her words. 'Course outline'? That sounds way too much like high school, and that was just-

“In the meantime,” Triad turns her disgusted expression to the desk before her, and waves a sickly hand at it, “clean up this mess.” With that, she walks off to the elevator, probably to harass some poor other soul, or report back to her supervisor, or something.

Jake frowns at her the second her back is turned, folding his arms and considering when it'll be appropriate to do an impression of Triangle.

Captain Holt has other ideas. “Well, Peralta, does she seem like should could be an adequate tutor?”

“Sir,” Gina interrupts, suddenly on the other side of Jake. He feels strangely cornered, but he thinks that's mostly because he's sitting down, Holt is tall and Gina wears high-ish shoes. “You're not seriously considering having her around five times a week, are you?”

“It's only three times a week,” Jake frowns; surely he remembers that right.

“'Unless you need more', and trust me boo, you'll need 'em,” Gina says, then looks back to Holt. “Captain, she tried to be funny, and she was not. And, she picked on Jake a lil' bit, which is understandable, by you have to understand, that's my job,” she pats Jake's shoulder, “plus, she's not a proper tutor.”

“Her résumé states she was a high-school teacher for seventeen years, she seems more than qualified to teach times-tables to Peralta,” Holt says. 

“Exactly,” Gina says, “she's a mean old high school teacher. There's a reason high school kids get tutors.”

“Because they need the extra support?” Holt asks.

“Because they can't learn from boring old teachers,” Gina corrects.

Captain Holt frowns, and then sighs. “Just do the tutor session with Mrs. Triad this afternoon, Peralta, and we shall discuss if she remains your tutor tomorrow. Everyone is to meet in the briefing room at nine fifteen.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jake sighs. As Holt walks off, he turns to Gina. “I don't need a tutor,” he repeats.

“I know, but you can't keep messing up cases because of stupid stuff, like numerals, and distractions,” Gina says lowly, clearly referring to someone in particular. Jake doesn't catch on. 

“Of course! I should really just abandon getting my finances in order, shouldn't I?” Jake exclaims, snapping his fingers once, biting his lip. “That’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“That is not what I meant, at all,” Gina rolls her eyes, walking back to her own desk. A minute later, after Jake has unpacked the necessary items from his bag, and powered up his computer, Jake notices an email from Gina.

 **LOOK UP** is in bold, capitalised letters. Jake complies.

“Three words, Jake,” Gina calls across the bullpen, only turning a few heads in her direction. She motions to her computer, and then his.

“Do you mean, that was three words, or you have three words, or- oh,” Jake stops rambling when he notices the new email from Gina, the subject of which is 'Advice [for free]'.

The email does indeed contain only three words in its body, no capitals, no bold letters, no underline, and no punctuation.

_drop the girlfriend_

Jake's almost ever-present smile disappears, and he rolls his eyes. She's given him that advice before. Since the day Gina met Lisa four months ago, she usually works it into a conversation at least once a week.

And yeah, Jake waited for a month to introduce anyone to Lisa, because Amy missed work for _three days_ when Jake broke up with her, and no one was happy with how that went down. But most of them seem to be okay with Lisa, and Amy had said she was just happy Jake had found what he wanted. It only sounded a little bitter.

-

**8:46 am, Tuesday**

Needless to say, the tutoring session yesterday did _not_ go well. Jake kept calling her Miss Triangle, and almost ran straight out the precinct when she mentioned homework. Even the thought of it, as he catches the bus to work the next day makes Jake shudder. And yes, the bus isn't very fun; more ‘eco-friendly’, says Lisa, but really she's just trying to be nice since Jake sold his 'new' car because it would have cost too much to fix, and it was breaking down so much it was unreliable.

Holt had seemed to understand about the tutor, somewhat, and said he would ask the corresponding department for a different tutor.

Jake had enquired if they could get someone ‘cooler and hotter’, to which Gina had agreed, along as she got to ‘screen the math-hag’ first, considering the disaster that was Madame Triangle. Holt had said that that was a complete contradiction in terms of temperature, and that he would not stoop to such a level that one would have to in order to ask for such a tutor.

Gina promised she would.

He steps off the bus, almost pushed over by the yelling children of a couple who seem content to parent through silence. The walk to work is just as annoying, with gum sticking to Jake's shoes, and enough pedestrians so drive anyone insane.

Navigating his way through the crowds, Jake reflects on the previous evening. Lisa had only been a little disappointed, on the outside, that Jake would have to do tutoring sessions. She offered to find an independent one, to which he reminded her he didn't need a tutor. She gave him a grimace of a smile, and proceeded to listen to the epic saga of Madame Triangle.

Jake's train of thought is interrupted, as is his approach to the precinct, when his phone rings. He shuffles to the building-side of the pavement, almost taking out a stroller on the way. He pulls out his wallet first, groans to himself, and stuffs it in his other pocket, digging around once again for his phone.

“Hello?” he says, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“ _Hey, Jake_ ,” Lisa says, and he can practically hear the smile in her voice, “ _Just a quick call 'cause I know you're s'posed to be working; they changed my shift to tonight, so I won't be home when you get there. I'm really sorry, I know it's my turn to cook, so, takeout's on me._ ”

“That's fine, it's okay, I'm sure I can get some extra pizza so your midnight snack can be better than, you know, mouldy noodles,” Jake laughs, “and don't worry. I'm always never at home when I'm meant to be, so.”

Lisa is a doctor-in-training, of sorts. Out of medical school, and doing her mandatory residency. Most of the time she's put it the ER, which is 'fun but gruesome'. Crazy hours haven't really been dumped on her just yet, but it really is fine. She's also a self-aware trust fund baby, so yeah, there'll be money for takeout.

“ _Grite_ ,” Lisa giggles, trying her latest spin on the concept of ‘noice’ in other words. “ _Doesn’t work, does it?_ ” 

“Nope,” Jake grins, “okay, I’ve gotta go. Love you.”

“ _I’ll work on that. Love you too. Later_.”

Jake hangs up, once more making his way to the front door of the precinct, grinning to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [unedited]
> 
> [I apologise for the probably-inaccurate portrayals of characters in this work, by the way, as well as any inconsistencies.]


	2. Gina versus Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa visits the precinct. A new tutor arrives. Someone doesn't like glow-in-the-dark stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to point out any mistakes, all my writing is only edited by me, so they're my mistakes entirely.

**12:16, Tuesday**

Jake is trying – and failing – to do research for the missing persons case he and Rosa were given earlier today with a cracked computer monitor. The giant crack in the computer is courtesy of the roller chair derby last week. The case has no leads, no witnesses; they plan on heading out to go take statements in half an hour.

“Good afternoon, Detective,” a voice interrupts Jake’s train of thought. He spins in his partially damaged chair to the aisle-like side of his desk, to be greeted with his grinning girlfriend.

Her honey-blonde hair is up in a ballerina bun, but otherwise her clothing is very casual; shawl-like cardigan, patterned leggings, and a floral shirt, all in fairly earthy colours. Jake vaguely thinks that if she were forty years older with a hunched back, she could easily be mistaken for the slightly crazy ‘ghost thief’ witness he had to deal with last week.

Jake briefly wonders if Amy is pointedly ignoring the encounter across the bullpen, but a glance to her desk reminds Jake of her whereabouts; out on door-duty with Boyle for some fraud case. The captain had only found out about Jake and Amy after they broke up, and by the advice of Rosa, had been accommodating in terms of their wish for space. Even now, everyone seems a little on-edge with Lisa here.

“I brought donuts,” Lisa proclaims, placing the box of mini powdered goodness on Jake’s desk, atop a small stack of files. There’s really no clear space on his desk, as it’s about a week after Halloween, and he’s still trying to catch up with all that paperwork after the third Halloween Incident.

-

Jake had made another deal with Captain Holt, vowing to steal the medal of valour once more. Holt had anticipated this, and removed it from his office. But this was after the deal was made, and thus in place.

In short, Jake and Charles clumsily broke into Holt’s house, favourite restaurant, and fencing club, before realising it was in the ceiling of Holt’s office. They got it, but only after a bruised tailbone and destroyed ceiling tiles.

Lisa hadn’t been super impressed, considering Jake technically wasn’t supposed to be working Halloween, and they were supposed to be hosting a party. The story was an epic, and she wasn’t having any of it. She’d fallen asleep waiting on the house before Jake had come home that night – past midnight – and had woken to a blanket messily draped over her. A cliché gesture, only slightly making up for missing the party, but Lisa appreciated it all the same.

-

“Hey, Lisa,” Jake grins, getting up out of his chair to hug her, “it’s great to see you,” he kisses her lightly tanned cheek. One thing about Lisa is she’s very enthusiastic, and very lively. There’s a line between cute and annoying when it comes to that, but Lisa is most definitely cute.

“It’s great to see you too,” Lisa replies, broadly smiling. “Since I couldn’t be home tonight, I thought, you know, donuts would be cool.”

“You’re the best,” Jake replies, and then he’s kind of stuck with what to say. He’s distracted by the fact that Amy and Charles have just stepped off the elevator, both looking exhausted. Amy hesitates as she notices the scene going on, and then makes a beeline for her desk, while Charles wanders to Jake.

“Hi Lisa,” Gina drawls, leaning on Jake’s desk. She must have sauntered over while Jake was looking around. “Nice clothes, if you own a bazaar,” she says with mock-sweetness. “Did I hear something about home?” she surveys Lisa, shifting the sleeves of her sweater, emblazoned as per usual with a minimalist wolf illustration.

Lisa steps back from her boyfriend, and gives Gina a weak smile. “Hello, Gina,” she says.

Gina looks at the blonde expectantly.

Rosa’s at her desk, across from Jake, and switches between research on her undamaged computer, and glancing at the scene unfolding.

“I said ‘home’, yeah,” Lisa says, beginning a ramble because she’s nervous, “we live in an apartment together, like, twenty minutes by car; but not by car because I usually catch the bus because there’s no parking at the hospital for me without stealing space from upset family members. Anyway, yeah we live somewhere, with my roommate. She’s great. She’s a professional cook, in a restaurant, but her home cooking is mediocre, sometimes. She has a car, but it’s trash, honestly-”

“Conclusion,” Gina proclaims, pushing off the desk to stand straight, “you two live together. Feedback, good for you, boo.”

Lisa’s smile falls. “I don’t care about your feedback,” she frowns. Her gaze sweeps across the room, vaguely stalling on the other female detective across the room, assessing her reaction, and then Lisa turns back to Jake, “I think I’d better go.”

“Hi Lisa – bye, Lisa,” Charles says, having only just walked over as the blonde turns to leave.

Gina waves condescendingly, grinning to hide potential giggles, and delicately adjusts her hair with her free hand.

“Bye, Charles,” Lisa smiles and nods, then turns back to her boyfriend. “See you tomorrow,” she has to almost go on tiptoes in her flats to lean up and kiss Jake’s cheek quickly. She almost falls when she rocks back to the heels of her feet, but grins regardless.

“See you tomorrow,” Jake says belatedly, as she wanders away, back to the elevator. Once inside the metal death trap, she waves excitedly, only to be frowned upon by snob police.

Jake glowers at Gina. “What was that for?” he asks.

Gina smiles, slightly confused. “You didn’t tell me you’ve settled,” she says, smile faltering. “It’s worse than I thought, Jake. You know, I remember a time when you used to value my opinion.”

“I value your opinion, Gina,” Boyle says, almost stuttering.

Gina hums in annoyance. “Sure, but that doesn’t matter. Don’t you have work to do, Charles?” she asks, fluttering her hand in a ‘shoo’ motion. Boyle lowers his head, gaze dropping to the floor, and skulks off.

“Look, I care about what you think. I’ve listened to every rant, read every email, but I can still make my own decision,” Jake says earnestly, slowly opening the lid of the box of donuts. “Can you really argue with mini donuts?” he asks, throwing three into his mouth.

“Yes, I can,” Gina picks one up, balanced between her perfect nails for effect, “when they’re deceit donuts. Something is going on with her.”

“One, that’s ridiculous, deceit donuts are _not_ a thing,” Jake laughs, “two, she’s not ‘planning’ anything. Maybe you should slow down with the soap operas.”

“Because _Die Hard_ is just _that_ realistic, huh?” Gina asks.

“I watch other things, sometimes. Why does everyone always jump straight to that? And yeah, it’s realistic, that movie is literally my life,” Jake grins.

Gina rolls her eyes, and throws the donut she took across the bullpen, set to fly over Scully’s desk. He seems to have been staring at the box of donuts, and catches the powdered treat with never-before-seen speed.

“I have _never_ seen him move that fast,” Amy gapes.

“It’s a Christmas mirror-kill!” Jake exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.

“You mean miracle,” Rosa says, “and it’s not. No such thing. It’s not even Christmas.”

“You sure it’s not ‘mirror kill’? Like, a double-death? A strange occurrence?” Jake flails, trying to maintain his gaze at Rosa across the desks from him whilst finding a donut. Gina rolls her eyes.

“Why don’t you ask your tutor?” Rosa says, looking back to her work. Jake makes a face at her, silently imitating her words in a messy fashion. He reclaims his seat, continuing to eat more donuts. Gina rolls her eyes once more, and wanders off, but not before snatching another donut.

Amy had watched most of the scene unfold with mild interest, and was then genuinely surprised when Scully caught that donut. That was entertaining; the previous conversations, and Lisa versus Gina, were not.

“Gina likes _me_ ,” Amy mumbles, then shakes her head. She’s thinks it’s true, that deep down Gina likes most of them, but then she can’t be too sure. It’s not that that bothers her. An unwanted glance to Jake brings her mind back to the issue flitting through her mind.

She’s over it, over all this, she tells herself silently. And she is, sort of, even though she hasn’t dated much since, and made way too many lists of what led to the breakup, and possible solutions. Not that Amy blames herself, per se; she knew what she was getting into, dating a cop, _that cop_ in particular. So yeah, Amy’s over it. She has to be.

-

**4:56, Wednesday**

“Peralta,” Captain Holt says, standing by the detective.

Jake doesn’t move from his position of staring at his phone. He’s standing by the elevator, after returning from door duty for the missing person case, and has been rooted to the spot since he pulled his phone from his pocket, three feet away from the elevator.

“Peralta,” Holt says again, raising his voice slightly. Jake snaps out of his daze of simplistic mobile games, looking to the captain in surprise.

“Hey, captain, didn’t see you there,” he grins, pocketing the smart-phone once more. “Sup?”

“What is ‘sup’ is that it’s almost five o’clock, and you’ve been standing here for three minutes. It’s time for everyone else to go home, and for you to meet the new tutor. I hope this one is better suited to your learning style,” Holt says, teasing Jake and his inability to deal with certain people. Holt gestures to the bullpen, as if the tutor is obviously waiting.

This time, Jake can’t really tell who he’s referring to. There’s various civilians in the bullpen, talking to detectives or just waiting, ranging from hobos to punks to yuppies. There’s a middle-aged man talking to Charles, so Jake assumes that must be him. Jake nods to Holt, and walks to his desk, and turning to the man.

“Hello, sir,” Jake says, interrupting Charles. He frowns.

“Hey, Jake, I’m just a little busy right now, sorry. I’m trying to take a statement,” he says.

“Oh, he isn’t- you’re not-” Jake stumbles over his words, “okay.”

“Your tutor is with Sergeant Jeffords, Peralta,” Holt says, making Jake jump from the surprise. _Since when was he here?_ Jake thinks, and nods. He looks to Terry’s desk, and he is indeed standing just in front of it, chatting to a woman maybe a little younger than Jake. She has her back to him, so all Jake can really tell is she has good posture, and blonde hair – lighter than Lisa’s, but in a curly ponytail, rather than straight down or the buns Lisa shows expertise in doing.

Jake considers thanking Captain Holt, or apologising to Charles and the guy he’s interviewing, but decides against both, and instead simply walks over to Terry. He approaches to stand on the woman’s right.

“Hi, I’m,” he begins, just as there’s a lull in the conversation, but is surprised when the woman turns to look at him, “pretty,” he wheezes, then panics. “I mean, um, I’m not-”

“You must be Detective Peralta,” the woman smiles kindly, extending a pale hand, barely suppressing laughter. “Thanks, if that was your form of compliments. Otherwise, sure, introduce as whoever you want. I’m your tutor. I heard you got Triad first, that must’ve sucked.”

Jake is unsure of what to say, as that was a _lot_ of words, and looks to Terry in slight panic, only able to shake the woman’s hand. He notices her left is devoid of any rings just as Terry speaks.

“We were just talking about twins,” he shrugs. “I’ll let you two get to, um, whatever it is you’re meeting for now,” and with that, Terry abandons the conversation in favour of approaching the break room.

“So, my name’s Sabrina,” the woman says, adjusting the messenger bag on her shoulder, and then picking at the sleeves of her grey, long-sleeve dress. “I’m ready as soon as it’s five, or a little after if you have extra work to do. I just, have a class today. Any other day I’m fine to stay later. Sorry, Detective Peralta.”

“It’s Jake,” he smiles, and Sabrina nods. “I just have to finish up a bit of paperwork, y’know, get together the files so I can take them home even though I’m not supposed to. That sort of thing. Should be super quick.”

“Cool, I’ll scope out a place to settle,” Sabrina grins, “I’ll go to your desk, if that’s where you’ll be?”

“Yep,” Jake nods, walking off after a moment of hesitation.

-

About five minutes later, Jake has just finished the relevant paperwork that needs, needs, _needs_ to be done right here, right now – no more than necessary, when it comes to paperwork. The precinct isn’t empty, per se, with Amy still doing some sort of work, the captain in his office, and Scully and Hitchcock messing with the kitchen appliances. But Rosa went home, so at least she can’t laugh at Jake having a tutor for an hour. Sabrina reappears from the break room, dragging one of the plastic chairs, and begins to wander over to Jake’s desk.

“No, I’ll get that,” Jake hops up from his chair, and rushing over, “it’s okay.” He takes the chair without much resistance from Sabrina; she seems much too tired to put up a fight. The chairs aren’t heavy, but Jake figures it’s probably kind of difficult to steer them around with a bag.

“Thank you,” Sabrina sighs, standing up straight, and following as Jake hauls the chair over to his desk, “I’d have suggested your lunch room, but the table was really sticky.”

“Yeah, that’s a mixture of fermented food and blister pus,” Jake nods, dragging the cheap chair, “trust me, it’s even more disgusting than it sounds.”

Sabrina cringes while laughing, boots shuffling along, and soon enough they’re back at Jake’s disaster site of a desk, though he managed to throw most of the random papers into the drawers. Sabrina takes a deep breath, pulling her bag off of her shoulder and slowly sitting down in the blue chair.

“Now, it’s okay if you want a different tutor after this,” she says, pulling her bag onto her lap as Jake sits down in his slightly-falling-apart rolling chair, “and I mean that. Learning styles are important; I just don’t know how many they’ll give you. I was thinking of starting with what made you get a tutor…”

–

Back at the apartment, almost two hours later – some hold-up on the subway – Jake meanders through the door to find his and Lisa’s roommate Kelly talking loudly on the phone in Amharic, pacing around the kitchen. Lisa is at the kitchen island, poring over one of her old textbooks.

“Hey,” she turns and smiles, but doesn’t move from her bar stool. Kelly waves almost dismissively, and turns back to face the oven. 

“Good evening,” Jake drawls, dumping his bag by the door and wandering to Lisa, messing up her hair affectionately. “What’re you up to?”

“I messed up today, so I’m going over some stuff,” Lisa sighs, gesturing to the open textbook. Her fingernails are freshly chewed-down, and hair tousled from running her fingers through it over and over. Jake frowns at this, concerned; ‘messed up’ could entail a lot of things.

“Are you okay? What happened?” he asks, setting a hand on her shoulder. Lisa shrugs away from his touch, and moves to cradle her head in her hands.

“I don’t want to talk about it, not right now,” she huffs, dropping her hands to the kitchen island and turning the page.

Instead of trying to lighten the mood with a joke, or saying something reassuring, Jake leans back from Lisa, and nods, though she can’t see. He goes back to the doorway to get his bag, and retreats down the hallway to their shared bedroom, dumping the bag by that doorway, and falling onto the bed.

He folds his arms behind his head, gazing at the ceiling, and the chips in the paint from when Jake put glow-in-the-dark stars there, and Lisa took them down. ‘Couldn’t sleep’ was the reason for that. He considers calling Charles and meeting at Shaw’s Bar, but disregards it. After a slightly long, slightly frustrating day, Jake just wants to stay home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone and everyone who reads this work! I appreciate it very much.


	3. The End of Shaw's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the bar they always visit every other episode? Shaw's Bar? No more.

**3:46 pm, Thursday**

Rosa is getting concerned. Sure, one might say Rosa never gets concerned, and that’s mostly true. But Jake has been standing on the sidewalk, staring at a ‘CLOSED’ sign for the better part of ten minutes. Rosa has every right to be concerned.

Passersby are also apparently concerned; two cops, complete with NYPD jackets and obvious badges, hovering in front of a bar is never a good sign, especially in the middle of the day.

“Jake, c’mon, you might not know what MMXVI means, but I’m pretty sure you’re okay with English, sometimes,” she snaps, nudging Jake’s shoulder. They were on their way back to their squad car after chasing up a lead with the missing person case when Jake saw the sign, and have been getting weird looks since.

“Shaw’s can’t be closed!” he says, gesturing to the paper sign underneath Shaw’s regular sign directing patrons to the basement bar, “This is the bar we always got to.”

“Look, it says underneath,” Rosa steps forward, pointing to the smaller handwriting underneath ‘CLOSED’, “ _Shaw’s Bar is relocating to New Jersey_.”

“Jersey?” Jake practically squeals in disgust, jumping back almost to the road, “But Jersey is-”

“I know,” Rosa says.

“And Shaw’s is-” Jake waves to the unlit neon sign.

“ _I know_ ,” Rosa repeats, and then shrugs. “Look, we’ll just have to find a new bar. Stop being a baby. All the bartenders in there were lame, anyway. Marcus probably knows a place, or something.”

“We need a new bar,” Jake states, setting his hands on his hips, and nodding at the sign. He spins to look at the other side of the street, squinting slightly in the harsh sun, as if looking around for another bar. There’s a few in sight, but with shady names that make them sound more like dance clubs or gentlemen’s clubs, neither of which would be good for this particular purpose.

“You need to solve this case, first,” Rosa says sternly, and looks to the squad car just down the street. She hesitates, and turns to Jake, “Are you okay?”

“’Course. Why, is there something on my face?” Jake asks, forcing a grotesque expression and splaying a hand over one eye ridiculously.

“You know I’m not into any of this, _feelings_ stuff,” Rosa says the word with disgust, shifting her weight from one foot to the other from unease, “but you’re my friend. You’ve been weird since yesterday. Like, weird-weird. So, spill.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Nothing is wrong,” he says, finally turning to face Rosa. He sighs at her stern expression, and shrugs. “Something happened with Lisa, at work. I don’t know what. She won’t talk about it.”

“I don’t know how to help,” Rosa huffs, “but thanks for telling me. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Jake nods, and walks towards the car. Rosa quickly falls instep, wishing she had something more to say. Marcus has really helped her open up, in her own way, but she’s still no relationship guru. Luckily for her, everyone knows that, and thus no one usually expects too much.

-

**5:03 pm**

Just as Jake is packing up his bag, ready to go home for the night, he’s interrupted by Amy appearing at his desk.

“Hey, Jake,” she says, clearly distressed, and breaks into a ramble, “I’m supposed to work overtime tonight, until eleven, but this family thing has come up, and I’ve run out of sick days. I already asked, like, everyone else. Scully and Hitchcock asked me what overtime meant, Charles says he has some expensive cooking class, and Rosa’s already staying,” she gestures to the nearby detective. Amy’s wearing another one of her pantsuits, the light-grey one, coupled with a dull pink blouse, although her stance is anything but cheery. 

“Sure,” Jake answers immediately, and stops packing his bag. He tries not to think much of the fact that Amy said she’d asked everyone else first. “Yeah, I can stay,” he shrugs, “no problem.”

“Thank you so much,” Amy gushes, breathing a sigh of relief, “I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jake insists, smiling, “I need to do all the paperwork for this missing person case, anyway. Turns out she ran away to her aunt’s place in Rhode Island, so.”

He knows he has a lot to make up for with Amy, considering his breaking up with her was pretty unwarranted. This sort of thing, along with other small favours, might only count for it minutely, but Jake’s not keeping track. Only time can heal wounds, and all that.

“Rhode Island seems nice, I guess,” Amy shrugs, and then glances back to her desk. “Okay, I really have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yep,” Jake says, sitting back down in his rolling chair, pulling the paperwork from the top of the two piles on his desk; solved and unsolved. Sabrina had mentioned cleanliness, slight, very slight cleanliness, might help a little in finding papers. Everyone else says that, of course, but time rearranging meant less time talking about how numbers before numbers change the number.

“Okay,” Amy gives him a small smile, and then walks back to her desk.

Jake only then remembers that, crap, _tonight he and Lisa are supposed to go out to dinner_. He mentally face-palms, and scrambles for his phone, toward the bottom of his messenger bag, beyond the papers and small coins and very old receipts. He can’t exactly ask Amy to work after just saying yes, and frankly he doesn’t want to, anyway. Family emergencies are more important than dinner dates. Overtime might suck, also, but going out to dinner is worse. Money goes in reverse, and Lisa doesn’t have very good taste in restaurants.

The phone is retrieved after only a little rifling through the bag, and Jake calls Lisa’s number from memory. She picks up on the third ring.

“Hey,” he says uneasily, a fake grin plastered on his face, trying to mask to more sombre tone sneaking its way into his voice.

“ _Hi, Jake. Is everything okay? Do you need a cab to pick you up? Did you forget the cab company’s number again? You know they have a jingle for it_ ,” Lisa answers, sighing at the end.

“No, it’s not that,” Jake says.

“ _Noice. What’s going on, then?_ ”

Jake sighs, and simply tells the truth, “One of the other detectives needed me to take their overtime shift, family emergency,” he says, spinning his chair idly.

Lisa groans in annoyance, and vaguely reminds Jake of Gina when she whines, “ _No! Jake!_ ” Jake pulls the phone away from his ear slightly, just enough to still hear her, but not so close that she might rupture his eardrum. “ _I mean yeah, that sounds bad, family emergency, but really? No one else could stay? This was important… Wait… who’s shift are you covering?_ ”

“Does it matter?” Jake asks petulantly, tapping his desk nervously.

“ _It’s for Amy, isn’t it? Jake, just because you broke up with her-_ ” Lisa is on the verge of shouting, but cuts herself off. “ _Whatever, okay? But this Saturday, I am making a reservation, and you, Jacob Peralta, will get your ass there._ ”

“See you, love you too,” Jake says much too sweetly, and hangs up before Lisa can respond. Rosa is still sitting at her desk across from his, glowering as usual.

“Problems?” she asks, serious. Rosa and Jake have gotten closer, probably as close as friends can get with Rosa, since Jake swapped desks. The one across from Rosa’s was sort of empty, Jake simply ripped his name-tag off of his desk the day after he broke up with Amy – one of the few times he’s actually shown up early for work.

So as soon he got to work at some ungodly hour, Jake swapped all the drawers of his desk with the one next to Rosa. They were sort of too grimy to just empty out and move the contents, so they all went and changed.

Rosa tolerated it, but does end up throwing office stationery at Jake numerous times when he gets too annoying. Detective Casey Cook, actual owner of said desk next to Rosa’s, hadn’t batted an eyelid at the change, simply sought out the corresponding name-tag, and settled in. Amy had seemed relieved.

Jake shrugs, “Apparently, Lisa arranged some dinner thing I forgot about, and isn’t very happy. She’ll get over it.”

Rosa nods. “It’s not some anniversary B-S, is it? People seem to get obsessed with those,” she muses, glaring into the middle-distance at the thought.

“No,” Jake shakes his head, setting his phone on his desk, screen down, “it’s about five months, I think. That’s not one people celebrate, right?”

“If it is, you have my blessing to dump her. Or, you know, if she’s not making you happy,” Rosa says, then seems to regret the latter statement, looking back to her work with more of a frown than usual.

Jake cracks his neck, and then nods. He’s not entirely sure what to say, but knowing Rosa she probably doesn’t really want a verbal response. Plus, it’s the second time this week he’s been told to leave Lisa, in some form or another, which is really a low record for Gina. Jake considers maybe weighing up what’s good versus what’s bad, and then realises that’s sort of an Amy thing to do, isn’t it, and shakes his head as if to clear it. He decides it’d be better to just dive back into paperwork, and play this whole long-term-relationship-thing by ear, instead of thinking too much.

-

**8:37 pm**

Several hours later – after finishing most of the overdue paperwork, and listening to Rosa complain about being the detective on-call and having to deflect various calls to other floors – a couple arrives at the precinct’s fourth floor. The middle-aged man and woman look slightly wary, and not quite sure of where to go.

Jake guesses they got directed up here from the ground floor, though they may well have just wandered up here. He looks to Rosa, hoping she’ll be more mature and get up to talk to them. She shakes her head minutely, and breaks eye contact. Jake rolls his eyes, and stands up from his chair.

“Hello, madam, sir,” Jake approaches the couple, plastering on a smile, “how can I help you?”

The man eyes Jake with unease, but speaks anyway. “We’d like to report a noise complaint, and destruction of property, and, um, assault?” he says. The woman nods along in confidence, scowling.

“Okay, well-” Jake begins, trying to remember the correct procedure for taking complaints. “Is it, in progress, or posing any danger to anyone, or-”

“Just a few blocks away. We lived above the nice jazz club for twenty years, and then they go and turn it into some ridiculous _bar_ ,” the woman practically hisses, and Jake moves slightly to avoid any flying spittle.

“Bar?” Jake practically squeaks, face lighting up at this, curious and eager despite the probability of it being a very bad replacement bar.

“Yeah, some basement music club,” the man rolls his eyes.

Jake spins to wave back at Rosa, gesturing wildly to the couple. “We’re going to a bar!” he exclaims, grinning. Rosa looks from the mildly frightened couple to the detective, and sighs.

“This is going to be a long night,” she mutters, standing from her chair.

-

**9:13 pm, _Vibes_ , basement bar, Brooklyn**

The bar is cool, and if they weren’t here for a complaint, Jake would totally consider it as a possible option to replace Shaw’s. He’s actually kind of contemplating it anyway, comparing it to his memory of Shaw’s. The floor and walls are timber, though stained much darker than the old bar. There’s seating in the form of cosy-looking booths and a few tables over by an unlit fireplace, as well as high tables by the small stage, and bar stools along the black granite-top bar.

Sure enough, a band is playing onstage; the stage itself is darkly carpeted, and raised maybe two feet off of the floor of the rest of the bar. Rosa nods to Jake, and then to the bar. He takes it to mean, ‘ _Get the manager_ ,’ and nods back before walking over to the bartender, narrowly avoiding a drunk couple meandering out the door.

“Hey, NYPD, I need to speak to your manager,” Jake says to the young woman cleaning glasses behind the bar. 

She’s wearing all grey as opposed to a uniform, blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She nods fervently, abandoning the glass by stowing it under the bar before running off. One advantage of the NYPD jackets is people don’t usually insist on a badge. Sometimes it’s fun to prove to people that yes, they are cops, even though most of them probably couldn’t tell the difference between a real badge and a fake one.

Jake turns his attention away from the bar and its blue-hued lighting to the small dance floor. Rosa and the rest of the officers are weaving their way through the light crowd that’s accumulated, making their way to the band that maybe have their amplifiers up a little high. 

It’s a complete waste of their time, of course, sending this many people out to talk to a bar’s staff and band, but apparently many people working overtime had been itching to escape the precinct. Plus, the couple also called assault and destruction of property – both blatant lies now that they’re here – so apparently that qualifies as an urgent matter for both officers and detectives. Overtime is always nuts, as is being stuck with the weekend crew, and tonight it no different. 

Metaphorical shit hits the fan, however, when the band belatedly spot the police. The lead singer freaks, eyes blowing wider than her doe-like eyes already are. She makes a run for it the second after that, leaping from the stage to the dance floor, and trying to gun it out the door. 

All of the others stop playing immediately, in a cacophony that screams unplanned and scared. The drummer shoots off of her stool, holding both arms in the air, hands still clutching neon-pink drumsticks. Another band member tries to leg it toward the bar, slinging the guitar off his shoulder and almost falling off the small stage.

The others hesitate. Rosa and her crew, however, do not. She sprints after the lead singer, while the officers disperse, one following Rosa, several others chasing the other runner, and the rest quickly approaching the stage. 

Rosa catches the runner easily, same with the other who stupidly thought they could outrun a police squad. The two other officers make their way towards the three band members left on stage, approaching to grab the drummer, guitarist and bassist. One, however, decides _nah_ and bolts off.

He’s fast, for someone of a relatively short height, and is out the door before the officers can begin to stumble after him. Jake doesn’t think twice before running after him.

“Be right back!” Jake calls over his shoulder in almost a singsong voice before sprinting to the stairs. He has to shove past a couple to get up the stairs back to street level, and then scan the wandering people on the streets.

New York at night is always bustling anyway, but the Nine-Nine’s jurisdiction always seems to have an absurd amount of people around. Even on an annoyingly humid Thursday night-

And then he spots that overly energetic guitarist, about to round a street corner, and Jake takes off after him, worn shoes barely gripping the pavement. He catches up faster than he expected, but it seems to be mostly due to the runner jumping out of people’s way, rather than shoving through. Jake’s just following in the wake of mildly disturbed pedestrians.

Jake smacks into the runner’s back, tackling him to the ground with practised ease. It’s only now, in the moonlight bathed with city lights, Jake gets a good look at the person scowling up at him while he fumbles to grab handcuffs.

And okay, maybe tackles aren’t always the answer, but it’s incredibly goddamn awkward to try to grab people running otherwise. Jake breathes heavily, right hand finally resting on the cool metal of the handcuffs he carries, and his attention once more focuses on the man he’s squashing. The runner is indeed several inches shorter than Jake – at least three – despite looking to be at least twenty-something. Dark hair falls in front of hazel eyes and pale skin; Jake vaguely wonders what this guy would look like without a scowl marring his face.

“Well?” the man says impatiently, wheezing slightly from being pinned to the sidewalk, “Are you going to cuff me? Or is this your personal brand of _peine forte et dure_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particularly unedited, and parts were written in a rush. Apologies for mistakes. Apologies also for the gap between updates; I understand other writers may update much more frequently, so this is probably super slow.
> 
> Anywhoozle,
> 
> Thanks for reading :))
> 
> EDIT: I'm also super sorry for the terribly-written police procedures in the second half of this chapter. I live in Australia and I barely know the procedures here, so I've tried to keep it vague in this, but it's still probably very inaccurate.


	4. Like Glue, but Twice as Annoying and Half as Useful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost-criminals, a running gag, and a little more tutoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the rating to Teen And Up Audiences solely for verbal profanity. Sure, it’s in [probably incorrect] Italian, but in future chapters there might be more [in English] so. I am also super sorry in advance for my descriptions of people’s apparel. P.S., if you notice any errors ever, feel free to point them out :))

**9:57 pm, 99th Precinct**

Jake’s always considered one of the best parts of arrests to be the mug shots. He likes to narrate them, liking the whole thing to being inside of a movie. They’re about to start them for the band they brought in, just going over exactly who’s being charged with what. 

“So, the pink-haired girl, and the tall dude, they’re not getting arrested, and the runners, they’re for resisting arrest, plus drug possession and weapon possession for one,” Officer Deetmore recites, looking to Rosa for approval after he’s finished. 

“Weapon possession?” Jake asks, not remembering anyone pulling a weapon on any of them. They’ve temporarily hijacked Terry’s desk, as it’s closest to the holding cell. Rosa is overseeing the debacle, eager to finish up and go home as soon as possible after ten ticks over. 

“Knuckledusters,” Deetmore replies, scattering the different files he was just looking over, and holding up a clear evidence bag, indeed containing black metal knuckles. Jake nods dismissively, attention caught by someone else striding into the precinct, looking to be out for blood. 

A scowling black woman has just marched off of the elevator, eyes scanning the fourth floor for someone. Due to the scarceness of people in general on the fourth floor at this time of night, her gaze rests on Rosa, Jake and Deetmore. The woman makes a beeline for them, practically throwing the gate open, combat boots hammering the vinyl flooring. 

Jake takes one step back at the scary way of walking, earning himself an eye-roll from Rosa and a confused glance from Deetmore.

“My brother called me,” the woman huffs, hands on her hips, and flicks her head to rid her face of her bright green hair, “he got arrested. I want to talk to him.”

“If he’s released, you can see him soon. There’s chairs for waiting on the other side of the gate you maimed,” Rosa says, gesturing to the green chairs huddled around a coffee table with outdated magazines. 

The woman nods, glancing to the chairs, and then back to Rosa. “Fine. My name’s Lola Caruso,” she extends a gloved hand to Rosa. 

The detective shakes it unwaveringly, and smirks when Lola doesn’t offer to shake hands with the others. “Detective Diaz,” Rosa nods with an air of finality. 

“Her brother is _not_ getting out,” Jake says as soon as he thinks Lola is out of earshot, “the bassist dude had cocaine on him, resisted arrest, and had the brass knuckles.” 

“Do you even listen to names? She said ‘Caruso’, dummy. The bassist is Luke Hill,” Rosa rolls her eyes, “Caruso is the one you caught. Probably going to be let off easy, since he has no priors.” 

Jake eyes the holding cell, scanning its occupants through the bars. Hill is glaring at a haughty-looking prostitute – probably rejected by her. Caruso appears to be sleeping, ignoring the annoyed rant from the pink-haired drummer next to him. 

-

Paperwork is one of the more tedious parts of being a cop, and it’s even worse when Jake is about to fall asleep at his desk. He’s sort of out of it, really, wondering when he can go home, when they’re done with those in the holding cell, or whatever. 

His attention flits to the bullpen when he sees Caruso walking off, having been let out by one of the officers, just as Rosa predicted. His posture is hunched, gaze fixed on the floor in front of him.

Jake stands, ready to go alert Lola, because apparently whoever let Caruso out didn’t get the memo to let the sister beat him up first, but it seems she’s already seen him. Lola has noticed the skulking form, and abruptly stands from her chair, parading once more into the bullpen, tucking a loose lock of neon green hair behind her pierced ear.

“Gian!” she snaps as soon as she reaches her brother, and smacks him upside the head, “ _Che cazzo fai?_ You idiot! What happened? Good God, I told you that band is horrible to be around, and you never listen to your big sister, never listen, because it’s music, blah blah.”

Gian Caruso recoils, muttering something about that not being his name, but shuts up when Lola begins to berate him in Italian. At least, Jake guesses it’s Italian. He’s sort of about to fall asleep on his desk, so.

After he’d cuffed Gian – Jake pointedly ignoring whatever _peine de forte_ or something meant – they hadn’t said much, apart from Jake reciting civilian’s rights regarding arrest, and making a comment when he stepped in gum on the street. 

“You know, criminals are like glue, but twice as annoying and half as useful,” he’d muttered. Gian had simply rolled his eyes, huffing something about needing superglue to shut Jake’s mouth. Rosa, on the other hand, was in an even worse mood after having to chase people.

Gian glances to Jake when Lola begins to drag her brother toward the elevator. And yeah, it’s just totally boredom mixed with the habits associated with being a detective when Jake observes Gian crossing the bullpen.

The shorter man is dressed in worn-looking clothing; slightly-tattered, dark jeans, navy cardigan, black long-sleeved shirt – with only a few holes around the hem – and scuffed grey sneakers. Lola has a hand clamped on Gian’s right shoulder, still telling him off, more quietly now.

“You ready to leave, Jake?” Rosa asks, packing up things from her desk to her small bag.

Jake turns abruptly to look at her, and nods. “Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, jumping up to collect his own things and stow them in drawers or his bag, eager to go home.

-

**7:04 am, Friday**

“Are you going to stick that fork in the toaster? Because if you do, son, I am not cleaning up your corpse,” Kelly points her spoon at Jake, speaking through a mouthful of colourful cereal.

“What? No,” Jake huffs, trying to hide the fact that _maybe_ he was about to use the fork in the toaster because people only ever mention that knives are bad for them. “I was just getting it out so I could spread the jelly with it,” he says, putting down the fork and resorting to getting the toast out unaided.

“Sure, sure,” Kelly grins, then goes back to eating her cereal, and uses her free hand to tuck back a loose lock of curly black hair. 

Lisa fell asleep on the couch, watching reruns of real estate shows late into the night when Kelly found her. Lisa must have asked the brunette to clear out for the night, with dinner and its probable romantic implications being an annoyance for her roommate. Kelly had guided Lisa to bed, where the blonde had settled as far to the edge on her side as possible. Lisa is still sleeping, as she doesn’t have to go into work until eleven.

“I wasn’t,” Jake says, “whatever. Anyway, you’re the one eating cereal with orange juice.”

“You say it’s gross, but it’s my greatest invention, Joke. Also, you’re the one who gets jerky on a breakfast bagel,” Kelly says proudly, and then gets an absurd amount of rainbow wheat on her spoon, dripping in orange juice, and eats it all.

-

**9:42 am, 99th Precinct**

Jake waltzes in late to the precinct’s fourth floor, which really isn’t that out of the ordinary, but it’s a surprise when Amy runs up to him with a frown.

“I’m really sorry about last night,” she says, then thinks better of her words, “and no, not the name of my sex tape. You look super tired, and it’s my fault. But, thanks, again, for covering for me.”

It’s really a lot of words for a Friday morning – any morning, really – but Jake just smiles softly. “Don’t worry about it. That is also _so_ the name of one of your sex tapes, seriously, not even difficult. But, as long as you’re emergency’s better?” Jake trails off, eyebrows raised in question. 

“Yeah,” Amy sighs, choosing to ignore most of what Jake said, “it’s fine now, mostly.”

“Cool, cool cool, cool,” Jake repeats, and glances around the floor before looking back to Amy. “Yeah, we’re cool. I mean, me, more so, but you’re pretty cool, sometimes, so- Where are you going?”

Amy rolls her eyes, walking off back to her desk, but smiles as soon as she turns away from Jake. There might be no hope of the whole ‘romantic-styles’ ‘liking’ they had going on, but friendship trumps that. Amy keeps reminding herself all they need is time, and moments like this seem to keep this hope alive. 

But she has work to do, and work beats worrying about things she can’t really control. It beats most things, of course, but then, something has to come first, right? 

Meanwhile, Jake has lazily trudged to his desk, and dumps his bag on the floor. He goes to sit down, moving the chair first- only the chair doesn’t move. It leans, sure, but the wheels don’t roll in the slightest. 

“What?” he exclaims, kicking at one of the flimsy plastic wheels, cracking it but also freeing it from the floor. Jake drops to his knees and then leans to investigate the not-rolling rolling chair. Upon close inspection, glue is flaking between the floor and the wheels, and the second Jake sees it, he stands once more. “Yeah, real funny, who glued my chair to the floor?” he asks loudly, arms waving to everyone on the fourth floor. 

Everyone who’s paying attention just glance to each other, unsure of exactly what is going on. Charles deposits his overly complicated sandwich from the toaster to a small plate, and then hurries over, struggling to keep the salmon-capsicum-egg concoction from toppling. 

“Jake, I’m sure it was- nope, that’s glue,” Charles says, peering at the incapacitated wheels covered in near-clear, cheap glue. “I’ll just eat this, and then I’ll Google how to fix it. When I was a kid, my aunt used to use ice-cold vinegar on me when I glued my hands together.” 

“How would that _ever_ work?” Jake frowns, considering just violently ripping the chair from the floor and putting up with the glue. 

“It would, Jake, vinegar dissolves glue,” Amy gestures to the chair with one hand, the other on her hip. 

Jake doesn’t have time to frown his way through another disbelieving reply before Gina pushes him out of the way, having stalked over from her desk, armed with a bottle of nail-polish remover. She leans down despite her heels, dousing each of the wheels with just enough acetone-based remover to defeat the glue. 

“Happy, now, kiddo?” Gina rolls her eyes, standing once more and replacing the cap on the bottle of nail-polish remover. “You’re welcome,” she waves a hand dismissively when Jake doesn’t reply, and turns on her heel to head back to her desk. 

“Maybe if you came into work on time, you’d know what’s going on,” Rosa pipes up, smirking from her seat, but the expression is gone as soon as it appeared. 

The brunet frowns so violently Rosa’s worried he might just tear a facial muscle, which only spurs on her amusement. Jake kicks the chair from its place, and sits down dejectedly. 

“Who glued my chair?” he asks. 

“Someone with too much time,” Rosa shrugs dismissively. Jake rolls his eyes at the purposely non-specific reply, figuring if this is the only thing that happens, and no one is going to talk about it, he might as well get on with the cases he has. 

-

**5:58 pm, 99th Precinct**

“Sorry to have kept you back on a Friday,” Sabrina says, packing up the items belonging in her floral pencil case, “you’re doing really well, so we shouldn’t have to have sessions for too much longer.” 

Jake’s inclined to believe Sabrina, because she’s so honest the rest of the time, but he gets the feeling the whole tutoring thing isn’t going away too soon. Today they went over Roman numerals again – which are goddamn hard, like, _what_? – followed by throwing out all the old food in his desk. Most of the bins on the fourth floor are now moderately full of banana peelings, old pastries and flecks of jerky. The detective had been severely reluctant to throw out anything, claiming the desk drawers have their own ecosystem, to which Sabrina promised to replace the food next time. 

“S’cool,” Jake shrugs, digging around in his pockets for the bus pass he’s taken to carrying, “I mean, the bar we usually go to relocated to Jersey, so we’re searching for a new one. We’re trying out one tonight. Maria’s Tavern, I think.” 

Sabrina whistles low, and then grins, “Have fun there. A bit of a lame crowd, if you ask me, but sure. It’s probably nicer than I remember it being.” She pulls her packed bag onto her shoulder; over the grey, long-sleeved plain shirt she wears. 

“Have anywhere you suggest, then?” Jake asks, packing up his own files, very ready to out, drink, and relax. 

“Giovanni’s is pretty nice if you’re really into food, it’s in Manhattan, though,” Sabrina shrugs, “The Hummingbird for pure flair, near the river. Vibes for music, a few blocks away. _Never_ Midnight Bubbles though, let me tell you, it’s trash.” The tutor mimes vomiting, and then grins. 

“Sounds cool,” Jake laughs, “I’ve only been to Vibes to arrest people, so.” 

“Okay, oops,” the blonde looks a little guilty. “Well, there’s others…” 

The conversation continues about bars and restaurants and the terror that is New Jersey, while the pair make their way down the elevator and out onto the street. It’s busy, even for six in the evening, but hey, that’s Brooklyn. 

“This is my car,” Sabrina announces as the conversation slows to a halt, gesturing to the beat-up yellow hatchback parked surprisingly close to the precinct. “I’ll see you Monday,” she says, no hint of a question in her voice. 

“Yep,” Jake confirms needlessly, nodding maybe a little too much. The blonde grins, and opens her car with ease, dumping her bag on the passenger seat and walking to the driver’s side. She climbs in, and the car soon starts with a sputter. Jake watches her go, in no rush to get on the packed bus for the ride home. 

Sabrina waves as she merges into traffic, and as Jake waves back, ready to begin the walk to the bus stop, he vaguely wonders how this tutor thing has begun to turn out so well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, as per usual. Thanks for reading anyway!
> 
> Also, for the Italian, I think it's:  
> Che cazzo fai? = What the fuck are you doing?  
> (Or something similar)  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	5. Small World Syndrome (Or, alternatively, Get Out or Get a Life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incorrect ranks. An assault on Hüsker Dü. And by the way, friends, 5 does not equal 6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super long gap between uploads. I just had such a slump with this work, with half-finished scenes and bad ideas and stuff... but here's chapter 5!
> 
> Some unnatural drama for the show, as it’s rarely angst-ridden/serious, but hopefully it’ll balance out soon enough. Also, I know most of the show is from main characters’ perspectives (in third person sorta) (I don’t know it’s hard to translate to writing for me), and one in this chapter isn’t a main character (because said character is original), but it’ll all make sense eventually, don’t worry. Sorry also for the google-translated Italian words, and the Hüsker Dü stuff - I don’t know their music very well, but anywho...

**6:14 pm, Friday, Jake and Lisa (and Kelly)'s Apartment**

“ _Where’s Lisa_?” Kelly imitates a whine, drawing out the name, pausing the sitcom she has playing on the television. “I don’t know!” she throws a dismissive hand in the air.

“Hi, Kelly,” Jake says, dumping his keys in the bowl on the kitchen bench, “that is not what I sound like.”

Kelly just laughs, going back to her packet of soy crisps and playing the show once more. Her hair is back in a bun, feet propped up on the retro sofa. Jake is about to continue his justification of _’Oh my God I do not sound like that,’_ , when the door opens once more to reveal Lisa. 

“I hope you’re super excited about dinner tomorrow,” she gasps as soon as she sees her boyfriend, running over to throw her keys in the wicker bowl and dump her bag on the bench. “Guess where it is!” 

The detective hugs Lisa before answering, kissing her on the cheek. “I don’t know,” he grins; he’s unsure of any place he could guess that would be the right answer. 

”It’s this sweetest restaurant, a different one to last time, in Turtle Bay,” Lisa squeezes the hug back a little too much, and then pulls back, “Midnight Bubbles! It’s got great reviews, and it’s just gorgeous.” 

The corner of Jake’s mouth twitches slightly at the name, so he just plasters on a fake smile and nods. His right hand rests on Lisa’s bicep through her sweatshirt, and he unwittingly grips her arm a little too tightly. 

”Careful there, officer,” Lisa laughs, shrugging out of his grip. Jake tries not to correct her, but he’s pretty sure one of his eyes twitches a little. 

”What’re we having for dinner?” he asks instead, leaning on the kitchen bench. 

”Aren’t you going out to a bar with your friends?” Lisa frowns. 

“ _Crap_ ,” Jake mutters under his breath, standing up from the bench and racing off to his and Lisa’s shared bedroom to quickly change. Lisa rolls her eyes after him, hands settling on her hips. 

**7:12pm, Maria’s Tavern**

“Sorry I’m late,” Jake huffs as he sidles over to the gang hanging at one end of the bar. It’s a street-level establishment with the sound system commandeered by the bar-back - it’s Hüsker Dü, something from Everything Falls Apart, and it doesn’t suit the air of the bar at all. It’s also pretty early to be out at a ‘tavern’, Jake thinks, but when it’s to scope out a new second-residence, it’s necessary. 

“That’s okay, Jake, we’ve only just gotten drinks. They’re weird, so I didn’t know what to order you, sorry,” Charles says, handing Jake the special drinks menu. It’s attached to a small clipboard, and Boyle isn’t kidding about the weird drinks. Jake’s eyes go wide at the strange names. They range from _Uptown Gingers_ to _Chat Whisters_ , and some questionable ingredients are in almost all of them.

Terry and Rosa are also at the bar, vaguely listening to Gina wrap up her analysis of the place. Scully and Hitchcock are yet to show, but had assured Jake they would earlier in the day. Amy has a family thing, and so does Holt, so they won’t be able to make it. Jake kind of envies them. 

“I haven’t had to misfortune of seeing such an attempt at a tavern since Jake was in the academy; he forced me to help him follow Jenny Gildenhorn out to make sure she didn’t get roofied, and, spoiler alert, she didn’t. She was stood up, actually. I just feel sorry the girl had to spend so long waiting in such a loser bar,” she says, waving to the linoleum-floored room referred to as Maria’s Tavern. 

“Hey, I was being nice, Gina. It’s not my fault he chose such a shitty location to stand her up,” Jake points at the brunette, and she just waves a dismissive hand. 

“Besides, how long does it take to get a drink in this place?” Gina asks loudly, looking around the bartender. The tavern’s not packed by any means, so she’s right - if she ordered before Jake got here, then she should definitely have been given her drink by now. 

“What’d you order? I wasn’t listening,” Rosa asks. She’s wearing her staple leather jacket, with a grey shirt and maroon jeans. 

“The one that sounded the least frumpy slash skeezy. Something about citrus,” Gina shrugs, “can we go yet? This just isn’t compatible with me as the beautiful being I am.”

“Just, a half hour, okay?” Jake pleads, and grins when the brunette sighs and nods. He leans on the bar, and turns his head away from the gang to locate the bartender. The apparent uniform for staff here is an awful chequered shirt with similar slacks, so she’s not hard to find. 

The bartender seems to be attempting to fend off several people haggling her, and Jake frowns. He pushes off the bar, and walks over. 

“Jake? Where are you going?” Charles asks, setting down his umbrella-decorated drink and following his friend. 

“I’m sorry, but we’re really not interested,” the bartender says, halfway through making a drink. It’s discarded on the inner part of the bar, while her hands are sat atop the tiled ledge. 

“What do you mean? Who’s the ‘we’? Look, I said I want to talk to your manager. And, really, your place could use live music, because you seriously have _nothing_ going for you guys,” snaps the guy who also has his hands on the bar - a bit of a feat considering he’s about five feet tall. He turns to Jake when the detective walks close enough, and scowls as he turns. “Problem? Wait, you-”

“ _You_ , what’re you doing here?” Jake says, because no way, that’s freaking Gian Caruso from the band at Vibes, and Jake so does not need this right now. The shorter man glares, retracting his hands from the bar to cross his arms, black-and-white striped long sleeves contrasting in a visually hypnotic pattern. 

The pink-haired girl is with him, and her frown is much less intense. She’s in a leather jacket with a few more zippers than Rosa’s, and it’s only really her bubblegum hair that detracts from her being as scary as the female detective nearby. 

“Me? Well, since you cops crashed us playing at Vibes, they’re considering not letting us play there at all anymore, even without Hill. So we’re scoping out new places,” Gian uncrosses his arms, and gestures to the bartender with one hand, the other moving a particularly long lock of black hair from his eye, “and apparently Maria’s Tavern don’t do live music, since their _dannata_ Hüsker Dü is obviously enough to draw such a crowd.” 

“Look, Gian-” Jake starts, trying to quell the situation while Boyle watches on in confusion, trying to follow along with whatever Jake is trying to accomplish. 

The pink-haired drummer silently gasps, and grabs Gian’s arm as if she’s worried he’ll lunge at Jake. 

“No way,” the guitarist snarls, making an aborted attempt at stepping forward, “you heard Lola? Don’t call me that. I can take all the others with stupid Giovanni Caruso, but no-one except Lola calls me Gian. I hate it, okay? It’s Jaron, to you.” 

“I’d say ‘don’t make me call the police’, but, well,” the bartender bites her lip. 

“Whatever. C’mon, Lillian. And you,” snaps Gian - _Jaron_ , Jake corrects his thoughts, as the guitarist points at the detective, “stop invoking Small World Syndrome, and _vaffanculo_.” With that, the pair stalks out of the bar, Lillian’s heels quietly clicking on the linoleum. 

The bartender finishes up the drink, and wanders away to hand it to Gina. The brunette eyes it with distaste, and slides the money on the bar with reluctance. Rosa grins as Jake and Boyle return, all ignoring the bartender. 

“Shit, what did you do to that guy?” she asks, eyes flitting to the pair leaving the bar. 

“What?” Jake asks intelligently. 

“Something about ass, that’s all I heard. _Culo_. That was Italian, though, so, I’m not sure. He seemed pretty pissed off,” Rosa says. She really just wants to leave - Marcus won’t stop texting her intermittently, about random crap concerning the family dinner he’s stuck at and she declined. 

“That was Caruso, from the other night. The band, at the bar? It doesn’t matter. Hopefully I won’t be seeing him, ever again,” Jake says. And, of course, jinxes himself. 

**6:36 pm, Saturday**

”What d'you mean, _I_ have to sing? Lillian’s the singer,” Jaron scowls, gesturing wildly to the pink-haired girl across from him. They’re in the small backstage area of Vibes, and were tuning until Melissa asked what Jaron’s going to do about the high notes.

He’d asked for clarification. Fighting has ensued.

”She’s also the _drummer_ , Jaron. Do you expect her to sing behind a drum kit?” Melissa bites back. Their singer, Erin, has been ordered a vocal rest for two weeks, and so has switched to lead guitar to replace Melissa. Melissa, their regular lead guitarist, has switched to bass to replace Luke, who is still in police custody, denied bail.

”She already does backing vocals,” Jaron protests.

”Sing, or you’re out, _Giovanni_ ,” Melissa taps a sharp nail to the guitarist’s chest, glaring, with just about the worst pronunciation Jaron has heard of his given name. His family may be extended and annoying - and arguably snobs - but at least they can say his real name right. Jaron huffs as she storms off to set up the small stage.

Jaron has not been having the best day anyway, what with trying to organise the band after Luke’s departure and Erin’s predicament. He gives his electric guitar to Lillian to hold, and then shrugs out of his green leather jacket, dumping it on his guitar case. 

”I’m sorry,” Lillian frowns, blue-painted fingernails tapping against the guitar. “But you know I can’t sing, not really. You have a really good voice.”

”Anyone who comes here for us will never come back,” Jaron sighs, taking the white instrument back from the drummer, “I don’t exactly sound like Erin.”

”Between you and me, you sound better,” Lillian grins, patting her friend on the back, and then walks off to sort out her kit. Jaron sighs once more, bowing his head in fatigue. He thinks he should probably finish tuning up his guitar so he can get started on some basic vocal warm-ups, like Erin usually does, and rehearse the lyrics he’s most unsure about.

They can technically kick him out of the band, since they don’t have any published music, and belong to no label, yet. With antics like this, he knows they won’t get signed any time soon, and no other bars will take them. Maria’s Tavern was a disaster, and a last resort - the place is dead, Jaron doesn’t know how they’re still in business - especially after the cop turned up. Badge 9544, he’s nicknamed in Jaron’s mind, though it’s only just ahead of several, more insulting, others. Jaron shakes his head to clear it, focuses on continuing to tune his guitar. 

**8:38 pm, Midnight Bubbles, Turtle Bay**

The restaurant is sheer cuteness, that’s a given. Lisa has various interests and likes, but cute seems to usually take the cake. Cutely decorated cake, of course. The restaurant, Midnight Bubbles, is filled mostly with couples and professional colleagues, and doesn’t seem quite as terrible as Sabrina described. Yet. 

On the bright side, it doesn’t seem like a likely hangout for criminals, so hopefully this won’t end up like a lot of Jake and Lisa’s dates; cut short by arrests for whatever crime some idiot thought was best to commit wherever they were. 

Lisa is grinning like an idiot, excitedly looking over her menu, bracelets jangling as she flips the pinkish pages. Her hair falls straight down – perfect by over an hour getting the blonde locks ready – pinned back on her left side to show off the neon ear cuff she bought recently. Her jean jacket doesn’t really go with the little black dress she chose, but then, what do jean jackets go with, anyway? 

She had an early morning shift at the hospital, which she described as being as fun as it sounds – very fun, apparently – and Jake spent most of the day pouring over case files, eating, and binge-watching good cop movies.

“This is exciting,” Lisa says, glancing from the waitress whose outfit she’s been judging, back to her boyfriend across from her at the small, square table.

 _Does she know something I don’t?_ Jake wonders, then shakes his head as if that’ll help clear it. He simply hums in agreement, and pretends once more to be interested in the menu. 

The waitress wanders over soon, and takes their drink orders – some sort of Sauvignon Blanc for Lisa, and a grape soda for Jake – before leaving once more to pick at her nails, or whatever. People continue to traipse into Midnight Bubbles, while others take their time in leaving. Jake is considering whether they serve ice cream here or not when Lisa speaks up. 

“So, I was sort of nervous about this, because it might be a little weird, but, I love you, and we don’t spend enough time enjoying ourselves, on dates, anymore,” she says, on the verge of rambling, and reaches across the table to hold her boyfriend’s hand, “sorry if it’s weird. Is that why you’ve been quiet?” 

“I don’t…” Jake’s eyes wander even though he squeezes her hand back, and across the room, he sees some familiar faces walk through the door, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s still November, right?” 

“Yes, silly,” Lisa says, “what’re you looking-? Oh.” She stops when she turns, seeing Gina drag Amy in by the arm. 

The brunette grins almost devilishly when she spots the couple, and continues to pull Amy past the waiter assigned to seating, making a beeline for Jake and Lisa. Amy has on black work pants and a floral blouse, while Gina is dressed up a little more in an aqua dress, stitching overlaid with thick black lines. 

“Did you- you didn’t invite them, did you?” the blonde narrows her eyes at Jake, disappointment and annoyance flooding her expression, while her shoulders slouch. He shakes his head, about to answer when Gina interrupts. 

“Hey guys, fancy seeing you here,” she grins, finally letting go of Amy’s arm, “best pasta for non-Mexican restaurants. Don’t ask, it would take too long to explain. Anywho, what’re you doing here? We just came for a quiet night out.” 

“Anniversary,” Lisa forces a smile. Amy visibly cringes, while Jake frowns. Maybe Rosa’s right, and Lisa is celebrating five months, and honestly, a year is twelve, not ten, so it’s not even a half-year deal. 

“Little lame for an event, isn’t it?” Gina asks, her usual condescending tone sneaking into the fake concern. “But then, not everyone has my extraordinary taste. Before I say ‘toodles’ to you lovebirds, what’s the anniversary?” 

“Six months,” Lisa says, shrugging slightly. 

“What?” Jake and Amy say in tandem, and before the former can shout, ‘Jinx!’, the latter dives into protest. 

“You guys are at five months, at the most- Jake and I broke up a little over five months ago,” Amy says angrily, turning from Lisa to Jake. “Care to explain?” 

Jake’s hands fly up in defence, “I don’t know, it’s not- I didn’t know we were here for that.” 

“We’ve been dating six months, Jake,” Lisa frowns, “God, does it mean that little to you that you can’t even remember how long we’ve been together? This was a mistake.” Lisa rises from the table, pulling a few notes from her wallet to dump them on the unused plates before stalking off, out of the restaurant. Gina deadpans, but really she’s content; she’s never liked Lisa. It’s just a shame it turned out this way. She turns to Amy, but the detective is already preparing to go. 

“I thought we were getting better,” Amy says sadly, “and it turns out you were cheating, anyway.” She turns away, while Gina follows in her wake. 

Jake sits there, dumbfounded as they leave the restaurant. Various thoughts swim through his mind, but not much lingers. If this were a cliché movie moment, the detective would be running after Lisa or Amy. But, when he thinks about it, he really doesn’t want to follow either of them. So, he sits there instead, waiting until enough time has passed that they’re both long gone, and meanders out of the restaurant. The street is cold, way too cold for how alone he already feels. He hails a cab, and gives them Gina’s address. He really just wants to be back at Gramma’s apartment, so he can pretend he didn’t just possibly lose two of the best people in his life.

So no, it wasn’t not like Jake and Lisa’s other dates. It’s much, much worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Unedited to the extreme. Feedback and associated actions are greatly appreciated :))
> 
> Italian:  
> dannata = damned  
> vaffanculo = fuck off  
> (As far as I know, deconstructed, vaffanculo has a slightly different meaning, but it's usually used to the same effect as listed)  
> Please correct me if it's wrong


	6. Burning Breadcrumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to yet another restaurant, late nights, and a Sunday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Around 2,400 words as opposed to 3,000+ but I don't think I could add and flesh out another scene without making a longer chapter and I'm writing this note past midnight.

**10:46pm, Brooklyn**

Jaron is on a walk, and the freezing November air has turned his already pale skin pallid. The New York sky doesn’t allow stars, but the moon is bright in the sky. He’s in Brooklyn, several blocks from Vibes with his hands in the pockets of his navy parka, hood up. He didn’t take it with him to the gig, of course - he’d taken his motorcycle to that, while Lillian took his guitar in the band’s grey van. He’d just swung by his dingy apartment and snagged the jacket, for a walk with fresh air and all that.

It was a disaster. _Not at first, of course_ , Jaron thinks bitterly, biting at his chapped bottom lip. As much as he disagrees, the singing lessons his mother forced on him in elementary and middle school still help - Erin, on the other hand, has had to try her best to be the singer. Lillian was with the same teacher, so, that’s how they met. 

Earlier this evening, Jaron had performed with the rest of Virgin Necks, starting the set with ‘ _Sorry, I don’t like the name either._ ’ Technically, it was a good show - without Luke Hill around to be an annoying asshole, the focus had been great. The audience at the bar were mostly pretty into it, with some enthusiastic people dancing near the stage. Jaron loves it when people really appreciate the music; a few twenty-somethings even asked the name once more, and if they had music out. He’d told them Virgin Necks (not his idea) and no (but they play every Thursday and Saturday at Vibes). 

Afterward, the manager of the bar had had enough. She’d said the lineup change, along with the slight shift in style, was the last straw for the band. Melissa had negotiated for an hour before coming to a conclusion; Virgin Necks can continue to play there, but not with Jaron. He thinks - _hopes_ \- that it’s temporary and the manager is just being a moody bitch, but he’s still not happy about it. 

Jaron is pretty sick of the cold night air by this point, considering his face is near-frozen, and his fingers are sort of numb despite the parka and fingerless gloves. He stops in his tracks, ignoring the glare from the young couple that were walking behind him. He fishes his phone from his jeans right pocket - it’s an expensive thing, a gift from his father for his most recent birthday. 

The screen lights up with _22:48_ on a background of a snow-kissed mountain, devoid of any notifications. Jaron huffs out a vaporous cloud of breath in a deflated sigh. 

“Fine, November, you win,” he mutters, turning on his heel in a smooth movement, and finds the number for his father’s Newark restaurant. Sometimes, Jaron coerces a delivery worker to cart him around the city, and tonight is one of these special occasions. It’s too cold to walk home, and _dammit_ , Jaron wants food he knows isn’t at his apartment. 

**10:55pm, 99th Precinct**

Jake found the apartment not as comforting as he’d expected, and so left after an hour. He’s broken into the precinct - well, shown up when he’s not supposed to, but it’s okay because none of his friends are there - and is looking over current case files. 

One is an arson case they’ve just been given earlier in the day, another a pickpocket going after college students, and finally a stolen bottle of rum worth six hundred dollars from a restaurant. He and Rosa have made a start on the latter, with several other restaurants that may have been interested in it. He falls asleep researching the restaurants online. 

**11:51pm, _Giovanni’s_ , Newark**

Jaron walks ahead of the old guy sent to pick him up as soon as the small car pulls up outside his father’s restaurant. The lights are still on inside, but there’s only one slightly-drunk party of four remaining as customers. Jaron knows his father is in there somewhere, for a dinner with Lola to discuss her monthly allowance. She’s doing a graduate degree in business management, and wants to move out of the dormitory and into an apartment. Without a current job, apart from occasionally assisting the family business, she doesn’t have the money to do so. 

“ _Grazie, cafone_ ,” Jaron waves to the delivery man as the guitarist pushes the door open with an annoyed flourish. The delivery man scowls at being called a peasant, but he’s gone from Jaron’s sight as the younger steps into the restaurant, turning away from the street. He pushes back the parka hood and rips off his beanie in one fluid motion as soon as he’s inside.

The drunk people don’t acknowledge his presence, but his father and sister sitting in one of the booths in the farthest corner of the restaurant do. Lola looks up from the papers in front of her, green hair tamed back in a ponytail, and waves her brother over. 

The guitarist waves back dismissively, and saunters through the tables, dodging cleaners as he goes toward the kitchens. Lola rolls her eyes, and goes back to asking a question about the information before her.

Jaron wanders to the industrial refrigerator room, picking out the large container of breadcrumbs; made in the restaurant, just like most of the pasta and breads. He spins around to leave once more, only to be met with Lola. She has her hands on her hips, glaring down her younger brother. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, gesturing to the tupperware full of breadcrumbs. 

Jaron shrugs. “Nothing, I’m hungry,” he says, and moves to walk past his adopted sister and out of the kitchen. Lola stops Jaron with a bangle-clad arm, and brings him in for a hug. They’re about the same height - Lola may even be a little taller thanks to her heeled boots - and so Jaron just sighs and hugs back. 

“If something’s wrong, you’ll tell me, okay?” she says, pulling back from the hug to hold Jaron at arm’s length. A frown paints her face, but it’s not malicious. 

“Yeah,” Jaron nods, pulling away entirely. “Look, it’s late, and you’re organising _whatever_ with Papà, I’ll see you tomorrow, at Baldassare’s party?” 

“I almost forgot about that,” Lola sighs, “yeah, I’ll see you at the golden child’s party for- what is it, again?” 

“Engagement party,” Jaron says, shifting his feet absentmindedly, “at the SoHo restaurant; probably so Papà will give it to him.” 

“Hah, no. As soon as I finish my graduate degree, SoHo Giovanni’s is _mine_ ,” Lola says, a determined glint to her dark brown eyes. 

“See you,” Jaron laughs, and walks past his sister. “If I go.” He knows very well he has to go, or else face the wrath of his mother. Family before anything else, and all that. Jaron stops halfway across the kitchen, and turns slightly to speak to Lola. “Oh, and thanks for calling me Gian at the police precinct. I ran into one of the cops at Maria’s Tavern, and he thought it’d be okay to call me that, too.” 

“Let me guess; the one whose chair wheels you glued to the floor?” the elder laughs - it’s practically cackling when Jaron nods. “What next, huh? As payback for the Gian thing. Office supplies in jello?” 

A wicked smile forms on Jaron’s face, and he shrugs. He could really use the distraction, after all. “I have a few ideas,” he says. 

**8:29am, Sunday, 99th Precinct**

Miraculously, Jake doesn’t wake up when the sun rises. No, as luck would have it, the detective only wakes when the weekend crew detectives show up, and alert the captain. Holt doesn’t work every weekend, but usually insists on showing up at least the morning on Sunday, and midday on Saturday. Jake works irregular day’s shifts, as do most of the officers and detectives at the precinct, but he’s not due back until Monday.

“Good morning, Peralta,” the captain’s voice seems to boom in Jake’s ears, and the detective practically jumps in his chair, scrambling on the scratched leather almost to the point of falling off. “You aren’t scheduled to work today,” Holt says as soon as he sees Jake is mostly awake.

“Oh, hey, Captain. Haven’t,” the detective pauses to yawn, attempting to right himself in the slightly-broken chair, “weren’t expecting such a beautiful Ray of sunshine wake up call. Get it? Because-” 

“Yes, your humour is exceptionally terrible when you’re overtired. Go home. I’ve had to personally ask Gina not to draw on your face several times already,” Holt says. 

“Gina?” Jake’s eyes really open at the mention of his friend, and he shakily stands from the office chair to scan the bullpen. It's not that busy, considering it's a Sunday morning, so Gina's easy to spot. 

Sure enough, said assistant is filing her nails at her desk, glancing at Holt and Jake every few seconds. When she sees his gaze, Gina stands, setting down the nail file and walking over. She's wearing a grey blouse printed with pink birds, with a cyan cardigan over the top.

“Sorry, Cap’n, just - I couldn’t sleep,” Jake sighs, cracking his neck with a grimace. 

“What happened, Jake?” Gina asks empathetically as she arrives, clearly concerned. “Amy’s gonna be fine, she’s strong. Lisa, on the other hand…?”

“I, um,” the detective glances to Holt apprehensively, shifting his feet in an attempt to alleviate the stiffness in his legs. _Is this really the sort of thing I should be telling the Captain?_ he thinks. 

“I don’t mean to delve into your… personal affairs, Peralta. However, if something is concerning to you to the extent that it’s upsetting your police-work, I’d appreciate knowing the situation,” Holt says carefully, hands clasped behind his back. 

Jake scratches at the back of his sore neck with one hand, the other holding him up as he leans on his desk with fatigue. “I think Lisa broke up with me, because she can’t count. And I didn’t go after her, obviously,” he says. 

“She’s gone? Oh, Jake,” Gina steps forward to hug her childhood friend, holding tight, “thank God that bitch is out of your life. I believe you, it’s okay,” the assistant steps back, “she didn’t deserve you, okay? And you didn’t deserve to be stormed out on. Life is not a soap opera; there'd be more hot people around if it were.” 

“I'm not sure if we broke up; I haven’t spoken to her since she left the restaurant,” Jake turns to Holt, “she thought it’d been six months since we started dating, and it was only five. I told her that, and she got super angry because Amy and Gina had turned up.” 

Holt nods knowingly, “I noticed she has a certain dislike for the two. Thank you for telling me. If you’re absolutely bored, you’re welcome to remain here. However, due to the weekend crew being the only available detectives, I would advise against casework that would be better suited to Monday. There’s always your ecosystem of a desk to sort out,” a ghost of a smile plays on the captain’s face. 

“Or, I could find a new bar for us all to hang out at,” Jake grins. 

“Yes, I remember your speech about the end of Shaw’s Bar,” Holt says. 

-

“A tragedy in our midst!” Jake had proclaimed, perched standing on a non-rolling chair, “Shaw’s Bar is no longer our hangout of choice, for they are relocating… to New Jersey!” Jake curled his left hand into a fist and brought it to his face, closing his eyes dramatically. No one had really said anything, so Jake straightened his stance, and opened his eyes once more. “C’mon, guys, this is serious,” he whined. 

“So is Occupational Safety and Health, Peralta. Get down from the chair,” Holt called from the other end of the bullpen. 

Jake rolled his eyes, but moved to step down from the old chair anyway. His foot sort of slipped on a wet spot of the linoleum, however, sending the detective face-first into the floor. Just barely having missed out on sprained wrists and/or a bloody nose, Jake groaned on the floor instead of standing up. He’s pretty sure Gina got a picture of his humiliation. 

-

“Bars? On a Sunday? You really do need tutoring, boo,” Gina sighs, “at life.” 

“Detective Diaz spoke to two witnesses of the suspected arson case she and Boyle started an investigation on, and referred them to a composite artist. Perhaps I could give you the sketches, along with her preliminary list of suspects?” Holt offers. Jake nods excitedly - well, as excitedly as one can manage after sleeping on a desk for nine hours. 

“I’m just over there if you need me,” Gina assures the detective before returning to her own desk. Jake sits down once more, cleaning up the files he’d been going over the previous night into a rushed pile. Holt soon returns with several papers, and hands them over. 

“It occurred late Friday night; the darkness didn’t help the witnesses’ accounts of the arsonist. The case should have been given to us sooner, but we had to wait for the fire department to suspect arson,” he says. 

“Thanks, Captain,” Jake replies, and gets a nod in return. He flips through the few pages of suspects - previously charged or suspected arsonists, and one perp convicted of assault. They all look vaguely similar, but not much. Likewise, as Jake turns to the sketches, it could really be anyone that’s a white, clean-shaven, dark-haired, young-ish male. The detective reasons the sketch artist did the best he or she could with whatever the witnesses said. It’s hard to describe people, after all. 

The sketches are also fairly different, so the witnesses must have differing levels of eyesight, or think different people committed the crime. The first one depicts a man with hooded eyes, a slim nose, and an oval face, while the second appears beady-eyed with a rounded face shape, and the beginnings of wrinkles on his skin. 

“About as detailed as the ID photos in _Gattaca_ ,” Jake mumbles, leaning back in his chair, trying to really sink into the cheap cushioning. And no, he doesn’t blame the composite artist, just the circumstances. 

The second sketch is of a total stranger, who maybe-kinda-sorta could fit one of Rosa’s suspects, but Jake’s never arrested the guy. The description to the side says someone almost six foot tall, with a chubby frame. The first one’s information instead describes a short but lean man. Jake realises the first drawing, however, resembles someone he does know - has _seen_ \- and has recently run from the police. Caruso. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and extra 'thank you's if you decide to leave kudos or a comment! (Is that how you say it?)
> 
> Italian:  
> Grazie, cafone = Thanks, peasant  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)
> 
> P.S., in Australia (or just my state idk) people usually say "Workplace Health and Safety!" if someone stands on a chair at school, as apparently it's mentioned in the Act. I tried to find the US equivalent, sorry if it's wrong.


	7. A Secret Never to Be Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, briefings, apartments and suspects.

**5:11pm, Sunday, Rosa’s apartment**

“Whoa, this is _amazing_ ,” Jake gushes, looking around the fairly vacant hallway of the apartment. The walls are a subtle grey, and a dark timber chest with drawers sits to the left. 

“Don’t touch anything,” Rosa says, locking the several deadbolts behind her, “this is a crisis, so this will be the _only_ exception to my rule of privacy; don’t tell anyone anything. Now, tell me about the arson case.” 

She picked up Jake from the precinct soon after she got his call at around four o’clock, and he only _nearly_ fell off of her motorbike. The apartment building itself is nice enough - fairly clean, with quiet residents, that sort of thing. 

He didn’t go to Gina’s simply because she’d probably try to talk about it, Charles because they really can’t live together – i.e. their eight-day stakeout that went to Hell – and Terry had said no – something to do with Sharon’s pregnancy, Jake just hung up the phone right then. 

Besides, Rosa’s place seems great – bland, but nice. 

To his credit, Jake doesn’t dive into his assumption that the arsonist is Caruso. He’s spent most of Sunday researching the case, and each of the suspects Rosa has. He called her and asked to crash at her place, and by some November miracle she agreed. He had the address, anyway, but he didn’t really want to turn up and be quartered. 

“Well, you already know a bunch, so, I’ve got like a dozen preliminary suspects, with the eight from your list and four others,” Jake says, wandering through the apartment. The next room is a combination of living and dining, with a standout black leather couch catching Jake’s eye immediately. “Couch!” he exclaims, running at it. Rosa just sighs. 

“Okay, let’s run through your four, and then my eight. I’m going to start making early dinner,” she huffs, dumping her motorcycle helmet on the island countertop. “You good with spaghetti?” 

“Yep,” Jake sinks back into the couch, flipping open the manila folder and pulling out the first paper. It has a picture paper-clipped to it, and Jake gestures to it with a flourish, “so, Julian Oaks, thirty-three, looks sorta like a mesh between the composite sketches. Used a Molotov to burn down a bookstore in Queens eight years ago, got out recently.” 

“Queens? Okay. No motive yet, though,” Rosa muses, washing her hands. She then takes out a large pot and deposits the metal on the gas stove. Her list was pretty comprehensive - five men and three women, from twenty-five to forty, all with basic history or motives - but a second brain is always useful 

“Exactly! Can’t rule him out, though. Next,” Jake sets down that file and reaches for the next one, “Luke Peterson, thirty-five, and I know he’s black, but he was suspected for arson a year ago for an activism group, and then let go because of insufficient evidence. Before that, ticketed for public nuisance, and picked up for an attempt at an assault.” 

Rosa grunts in thought - Detective Rosa Diaz does _not_ hum - as she gets the spaghetti from her pantry, “Sounds okay, apart from the witnesses’ accounts. Who else?” 

Jake moves onto the next file, belonging to a blond man, “Draven Achterberg, twenty-three, a trust-fund baby that moved to Brooklyn for college at NYU five years ago. Arrested for burglary in the second degree, associated with some other guys that got picked up for arson and property-related damage crimes. They’re all either in jail or on probation.” 

“Nope,” Rosa says, “I thought so, too, but he’s back in California for a high school reunion - there’s some weird fansite dedicated to the guy because he’s been on lame tv shows and some people seem to appreciate it. Trust me, you don’t want to see the creep-shots.” 

“Yikes, okay,” Jake shakes his head. “Next person! Jaron Caruso, twenty-six, ran from us on Thursday at Vibes.” 

“You mean Giovanni Caruso?” Rosa asks, dumping spaghetti and then water into the pot, filling it up from the tap at the island counter. 

“He asked me to call him Jaron,” Jake mumbles, switching to the file he’s had to make for Caruso. 

“Great. He had no priors, Jake, we didn’t even get him for evading arrest,” Rosa scowls, turning off the tap and depositing the full pot back on the now-hot stove. 

“Yeah, but - he looks like the second sketch, and he lives in Brooklyn. Motive is, his dad owns a bunch of restaurants, which means burning down 184 would open up a space for a new one,” Jake explains. Rosa considers this, and then shakes her head. 

“Nope. He didn’t seem like a criminal. Hot; sure. Dangerous; no,” she says, getting out mince from the refrigerator, and a jar of pasta sauce. 

“Rosa, you’re dating Marcus,” Jake says, pointedly choosing to offer his opinion on the matter. 

“So? You can be dating someone and still acknowledge other people are hot. Remember what I said about the Vulture? You can hate someone and still think they’re hot. Is this what’s going on with you and _Jaron_?” Rosa smirks, dumping the meat into a glass bowl. 

“No,” Jake snaps, “I am not including someone in a serious arson investigation because I think he’s hot. He just looks like the composite sketch, and the restaurant thing is motive. Plus, we crashed the band at Vibes on Thursday; that might’ve sent him over the edge, y’know?” 

Rosa and Gina are the only ones at the nine-nine who know Jake’s bisexual, even though he’s close to Terry and Charles, and he’s sure no-one would mind. He maintains it’s simply never come up in conversation, especially since he was obsessed with Jenny Gildenhorn for so long. Gina and Rosa also agreed to not bring it up, or confirm or deny it or whatever, so it’s ambiguous to everyone else.

Rosa grins as she prepares the mince. “If you say so,” she pauses, grin fading, “I have a guest bedroom. I’ll get sheets and stuff out for it. There’s a trunk at the end of the bed. Don’t. Touch it.” 

“Why? What’s in there?” Jake asks, straightening his posture on the couch a little. 

“Nothing you have to worry about. No explosives, just other weapons,” Rosa shrugs, and goes back to cooking. “So, the other eight suspects…” 

**8:37am, Morning Briefing, 99th Precinct, Monday**

They drove by Jake and Lisa (and Kelly)’s place earlier this morning, just long enough for Jake to shower and change into fresh clothes - Lisa wasn’t there, and Kelly was sleeping in. She naps like she’s comatose, to the point where she practically needs an air-horn to wake up. 

“Café 184, pre-arson,” Jake says as he clicks to the first slide of the presentation he hastily put together. It’s a cute restaurant, all sweet pastel colours and adequate furniture, with the name in contemporary lights above the glass double-door. “Located several blocks north of the precinct,” _click_ to a slide of a map with the café circled in red, “And now, café one-eight-four, post-fiery-inferno.” 

The following slide show the café from a different angle, inside burned to a crisp, doors shattered from the heat, and plastic interior melted black. Most of the present detectives have stern or neutral expressions - Jake is pointedly trying not to look at Amy, because they’ve yet to talk about what Lisa said - but Charles looks positively distraught. 

“They had the best pastries for a non-bakery or patisserie in our jurisdiction,” he says in a wistful tone. 

“It’s been checked out, and it’s definitely arson; there was evidence of a Molotov starting the blaze,” Terry explains, ignoring the pastries comment. He stands at the front of the room along with Jake and Holt; Rosa did start the investigation, but let Jake handle the presentation after all the research he did Sunday. 

“Fortunately, no war from the fire department this time, yet,” Jake ends up mumbling, and then continues, “Anyway, we have a list of suspects, thank you Rosa, and two composite sketches from witnesses’ accounts.” _Click_ to the slide of the sketches side-by-side. “Charles, I need you to make a list of the café’s competitors. Amy, look for motives with the suspects, and then we’ll talk to a shorter list. The Sarge and I are going to talk to the owners. Scully, Hitchcock, keep an eye out for the fire department; they are _not_ winning this time.” 

Everyone nods in affirmation, and the cops toward the back of the room look sort of bored. They’re not given anything to do, but Holt likes the entirety of the fourth floor team to be informed of ongoing cases. The list of suspects is pretty much all of Rosa’s, plus an activist-type guy, and Caruso. 

“Questions?” Holt asks. 

No one speaks. 

“Dismissed,” the captain says, and exits the briefing room. Jake considers trying to talk to Amy now, but she speed-walks out of the room with calm ferocity before he can try to say anything. Everyone else leaves except for Rosa, though Boyle seems tempted to hang around. 

“So? When are you gonna say something?” Rosa asks, shrugging her shoulders to adjust her maroon leather jacket. She and Jake had had a reluctant heart-to-heart the previous night, since he was _so_ not staying there for no good reason. 

“When we talk to the suspects, I guess,” Jake sighs, taking the presentation thumb drive from the TV, “on the drive to wherever they are, y’know?” 

“I hope it works out. You’re both my friends,” Rosa says, and almost looks as though she wants to say something else, but decides against it. 

“Thanks,” Jake sighs, and they leave the briefing room together. Jake vows to throw his energy and time into the case, and worry about what he’s going to say later. 

-

A few hours later, after speaking to the café owners - a middle-aged couple and their twenty-something daughter - they have a current list of five suspects narrowed down from a dozen. Amy arranged the list in order of probable likelihood, with Caruso last despite Jake’s protests that it was him. 

They’ve gotten into Amy’s car, on their way to the last known residence of the third suspect. The first one had been evicted from the apartment building they went to, and the second wasn’t home. 

“Can you drive if I talk?” Jake asks, shifting his shoulders under his navy hoodie. 

Amy considers his question as she pulls away from the curb, merging into the street. “Sure,” she says in a clipped tone. She’s dressed in a black pantsuit with a cyan button-up, hair down but tucked back behind one ear, and a stern expression on her face. 

“I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. I didn’t get to explain last night; I have no idea why Lisa thought it had been six months. I didn’t even know we were at the restaurant for a special occasion. The first date we went on was around five months ago, like, two or three weeks after we broke up. Which I’m still sorry about. I was a dumb idiot,” Jake trails off, glancing at Amy before fixing his gaze on the road. 

She takes a minute to consider this, seamlessly turning corners and navigating the busy Brooklyn streets at a safe speed. She quietly responds, “You’re serious?” 

The passenger nods dumbly. 

“Jake,” Amy says softly. 

“Yeah, sorry, I nodded; I forgot you can’t see that,” Jake huffs out a laugh, making the other detective smile. _This is amazing,_ Jake thinks, practically giddy that this is actually looking up. The whole Lisa thing, not so much, but the brunet pushes that to the back of his mind. 

“I’ve missed you, Jake,” Amy sighs, “We used to be really close friends, and I want that back. So promise me something like this won’t happen again? Cops before…what rhymes with that?”

“Cops before snops? Police before geese!” Jake grins, snapping his fingers at the genius thought.

“Are you calling Lisa a goose?” the driver scoffs. 

“Hey, even I can count to five correctly,” Jake says. 

“Speaking of which, how’s the tutoring going?” Amy asks, smiling once more. 

**1:37pm, Jaron’s apartment building**

“I couldn’t find as much about this suspect,” Amy muses as she and Jake walk from the stairwell to the hallway in which the Jaron’s apartment is apparently located, “I mean, I still think it was either the first or third suspects, Oaks or Hangmire. They’re the only ones on this list who’ve used Molotov cocktails.”

The third suspect, Hangmire, had an alibi for all of Thursday, claiming to have been at an ice hockey game, and then out drinking with his buddies. Jake had called Charles to ask him to check it out with security camera feeds. The fourth suspect also had an alibi; he was at the police precinct, reporting the theft of his car, and when Jake called to confirm it, Charles said he was the one who took the report, so, the fourth’s in the clear. 

“Have some faith in the sketch artist, Amy, geez,” Jake says, pulling a face as he reads the numbers on the doors. They’re looking for 3-L, so it’s probably at the other end of the hall considering they’re at 3-C right now. 

“I trust the sketch artist,” she drawls, clearly unimpressed, “just not witnesses. Rosa said you’re personally targeting this guy. What’s that about?” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Rosa and I got a noise complaint the night you asked me to cover for you, and we took down a band at this bar - super cool by the way, totally a possible replacement for Shaw’s, by the way - and I arrested this guy, Caruso. Then we ran into him and this other girl at Maria’s Tavern, which, you didn’t miss anything, _lame-fest_. Anyway, Caruso was going off at the bartender, and I was trying to tell him to back off, and he stormed out. Obviously scared of me, I mean, I _am_ super-intimidating-yet-cool detective Jake Peralta. And I’m-”

“We’re here,” Amy interrupts with a smile, gesturing to the door before them.

Indeed, silver labels of _3L_ emblazon the worn, green-painted timber. Jake makes a face, almost muttering a, ‘yeah, okay, whatever’. She knocks on the door thrice sharply. “If this is a total waste of time, you have to clean my car. Deal?” Amy asks as an afterthought. 

Jake considers her hand outstretched for such a bet, and then makes up his mind. It doesn’t mean they arrest the guy, or that he did it, or whatever - just that this isn’t a waste of time. Fair deal. “You’re on,” Jake says, and shakes her hand as the door opens. 

“Oh, _dai_! Seriously? It’s Monday, I was just leaving,” Jaron whines, hanging off the door with one hand. He nibbles at his lower lip for a second before releasing it, and glances between the detectives as they finish the handshake. “I take it this isn’t a social visit? Come to ruin my life a little more? Or do you miss me? Sort of creepy visiting me at apartment, though,” he deadpans, and then smirks. 

“Friday night, where were you?” Jake snaps, unimpressed. Normally, he’d ease whomever they’re talking to into the situation, so either guilty people confess or innocent people don’t feel like they’re being accused of something. _This guy, however, totally did it_ , Jake thinks. 

“Jaron Caruso, no matter what my file says. Nice to meet you to. Badges?” the shorter frowns, licking his lower lip, and then looking at the detectives expectantly. 

Amy plucks hers from her belt, and holds it up. Jake has to fish around in his jacket’s inner pockets, but finds his badge easily enough. “I’m Detective Santiago, this is Detective Peralta,” she says, gesturing to herself and Jake in turn, before putting her badge back on her belt. It’s now clear Jaron is even shorter than Amy, at least by a little. He’s closer to 5’4” as opposed to Amy’s 5’6”. Jake’s not that tall, maybe like 5’10”, while Terry towers over everyone at 6’3”. 

“Thursday night. Can you account for your whereabouts?” Jake asks, pocketing his badge once more, the metal clinking against the pair of sunglasses he forgot about. 

Jaron huffs out a breath, and ruffles his dark hair with the hand not leaning on the door. “Well, don’t tell the cops, but I was jaywalking,” he stage-whispers, then straightens his posture to answer seriously, “I don’t know. I was at home, how’s that? Thursdays and Saturdays is when the band plays at Vibes, Mondays and Sundays are practice, Wednesdays are my own acoustic gig at Jukebox, in Newark. And I just got fired from that pancake place in Midtown. Last Friday, I was home alone.” 

“New Jersey?” Jake practically hisses at the mention of Newark, recoiling. 

“Yeah duh, you’re police, you’d know that,” Jaron snaps back. 

Amy frowns at this, and takes the sketch copies from her suit jacket pocket, unfolding them. “May I?” she asks, gesturing as if she wants to hold them next to the suspect’s face. He nods, and she carries through. Side-by-side, the first sketch is ridiculously off, but the second looks eerily similar. 

“See? I told you so,” Jake says. The guitarist turns to look at the sketch Jake points to, and scowls, pushing off the half-open door to swing it completely inwards. 

“Hey, what? Who did that? Why am I in a drawing?” Jaron asks. 

“Know anything about Café 184, a few blocks from here?” the brunet says, peering into the apartment; all he can see is the timber-looking linoleum flooring, and the back of a large bookcase partially blocking off the rest of the dwelling. 

“I know it’s more a restaurant than a café, and that they don’t want any new live music; they only have it Saturdays,” Jaron rolls his shoulders, and then tugs down the sleeves of his grey sweater underneath the camouflage jacket in turn. 

“A witness puts you at the scene of the crime - arson, Friday night,” the brunet snatches the sketch, brandishing it to Jaron. Amy lowers the other drawing, folding it back up.

“Yeah, okay, what line-up was I in, huh? I said I was here. Why would I want to torch some café?” he snarls, clearly fed up with being harassed at his front door. “Or did you figure out the glue thing?” 

Jake’s answer is interrupted by a car alarm, and Amy groans. “That’s my car,” she says, “are we done here?” 

The other detective shakes his head. “No way. You check it out, I’ll finish up,” he says. 

Amy looks like she wants to argue, but nods. “Thanks,” she says, and runs off down the hall. Jaron’s words shift through the brunet’s head, and it takes a second to make sense. Jaron cocks his head to the side, right hand scratching at the back of his neck. 

“So I’m thinking, leave me alone, so I can go to my band practice so they won’t kick me out,” he fakes a smile, moving to step forward. 

“ _You_ glued my chair to the floor?” Jake gasps, and when the suspect just smirks triumphantly, he shoves the sketch into his jacket pocket, and reaches to the back of his jeans to get handcuffs, “You’re under arrest for the arson of Café 184 on Friday night.” 

Jaron freezes, and as he drops his hand from his neck, the detective grabs his wrist, spinning him to cuff his wrists together. The handcuffs click against the glass of a watch face, but otherwise click shut easily. 

“What? _Ma, che sei grullo?_ I didn’t do anything!” the guitarist writhes, but doesn’t fight back - he’s really resisting thrashing violently, considering this is ridiculous. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” Jake begins, despite Jaron vehemently advising against such action. 

“Stop! You so don’t want to do this. I’ll demand a translator, don’t think I won’t,” the guitarist snarls. “God, I’m sorry for the glue, okay? I didn’t set fire to any café! _Dio bono_ , seriously?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Sorry for my lack of knowledge regarding police procedures... I mean, I re-watched a few episodes just for this, so (it'll make more sense after the next chapter don't worry).
> 
> Italian:  
> Ma, che sei grullo? = But how stupid are you?/But, you’re stupid?  
> Dio bono = good Lord  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)
> 
> EDIT: I got the days of the week messed up; originally, the arson was going to be Thursday, and then I realised that was the Vibes day and so changed it to Friday, but forgot to change one of the questions when Jake and Amy speak to Jaron. It's changed now, sorry for my terrible editing.


	8. The Beginning of Two Days (of Spontaneous Combustion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More donuts, more briefings, and more mistakes.

**2:02pm, 99th Precinct**

“Is that Caruso? What the Hell, Jake?” Rosa snaps the second the trio step off the elevator, standing up from her desk. Jake has Jaron in cuffs, while the other detective follows along with a firm frown. 

“He did it, okay?” Jake whines, “I got this, okay? Case solved.” 

“It wasn't me, this is ridiculous,” Jaron protests, going from angry to sullen as they enter the bullpen. His stance hunches visibly under the gaze of all the police, confidence fading, and _man can he pull off the ‘kicked puppy’ look_ Jake thinks. The brunet marches the suspect through the middle of the rows of desks, Amy following along, and stops at his own. 

“Yeah? Explain,” Rosa says, crossing her arms. She is, as usual, scary in her black leather jacket and deep purple jeans, her gaze intense.

“Well, hold this,” Jake says, attempting to pass Jaron to Amy. She shakes her head, and instead simply puts herself between the suspect and the direction of the door. _Like he’s going to run in a precinct full of cops_ , she thinks. 

Jake walks to his desk, turning on his computer. “I just have to find this file online, let me just sit on my glue-free chair, thanks, Jaron,” he sneers, and drops violently onto his chair. Instantly, an ear-splitting horn noise blares, and Jake jumps up in surprise. 

“Jeez, drama queens, wanna turn it down a little?” Gina calls from her desk, pinching her forefinger and thumb together so they’re almost touching, the rest of her fingers curled into her palm. 

“What the-? Did you-?” Jake stutters, kicking over the chair to reveal the partially used air horn. He turns to Jaron, glaring but also disbelieving. The suspect is visibly cringing, caught between a grin and a frown – he just ends up looking sheepish, as if he wishes his jacket could actually camouflage him. The jacket is slightly too long on his torso, and likewise the sleeves seem intent on becoming sweater-paws.

“What is going on out here?” Holt asks as he strides out of his office at a precise pace, his uniform pristine, as usual. 

“He did it,” Jake says, pointing to Jaron. The latter frowns right back, having to bite his tongue so he doesn’t give a snarky reply. 

“Someone in handcuffs activated the air horn on your chair?” Holt asks slowly, observing the strange scene before him with tired unease. 

“My car alarm went off when we were questioning the suspect, so I left Jake to finish up, and he arrested him. Without any evidence,” Amy tries to maintain confidence, but ducks her head at the end of her explanation. 

“You mean to tell me, Peralta, you arrested a suspect with no prior convictions, and no history of arson, because…?” Holt asks. 

“He looks like the sketch,” Jake mumbles. 

“Santiago, take him into the holding cell,” Holt gestures to the near-empty cell, “Peralta, my office, now.” 

“This is all your fault, Caruso,” Jake mutters, and then stalks off in the direction of the captain’s office. Jaron silently imitates the detective’s words, scowling. He follows when Amy nudges his shoulder, wandering to the holding cell. 

“Hey, I’m not the one who arrested someone on a whim,” Jaron mutters, but he’s shoved into the holding cell before Jake can whip around and snap back. 

“Close the door, Peralta,” Holt says as he takes a seat in his own non-booby-trapped office chair. He doesn’t lean back, and keeps his stance more rigid than usual. “Care to explain what just occurred?” 

“I arrested the arsonist,” Jake shrugs. 

“Having a tutor was supposed to help,” Holt says, clearly frustrated, “call a briefing. Once again, the squad need to know you’ve ruined their next forty-eight hours. If it really was this person, you have two days to get enough evidence for a case.” 

“Captain, I got Whitman last time, this will be a piece of cake. He’s not a tough criminal,” Jake explains his logic – or the idea that’s come to mind when he thought _Oh no how do I fix this_ , but he’s still sort of blinded with rage about the Glued Chair Incident. 

“Wouldn’t the suspect being a previously-convicted criminal make you sure that you’d have arrested the correct person?” Holt asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, and align his fingertips together in thought. 

Jake forces a smile through gritted teeth, and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh,” he says. 

-

“Again, seriously?” Rosa snarls as soon as the Jake and Holt’s explanation of the situation is over. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to get the evidence and _then_ arrest the perp, so we don’t have to do all this work in two days?” Hitchcock says thoughtfully, as if it’s an amazing idea. 

“Shut up, Hitchcock. That doesn’t matter now. All that matter is, Caruso did it, and you guys need to help me prove it,” Jake grins, gesturing to the seated gathering before him. 

“Unfortunately, as with Dustin Whitman, Peralta has jumped the gun with the arrest. Although not the weekend, I know Detective Peralta had ruined these two days. Except under special consideration, all of you need to stay here to solve this case. The precinct is being watched very closely, and we can’t afford a slip-up like a wrongful arrest lawsuit. Get to it. Dismissed,” Holt finishes, letting go of the lectern. 

Jake slinks out of the briefing room after everyone else, but puts on a confident stride as soon as he’s in view of the holding cell. “I’ll get started with the interrogation; see if he’ll crack,” he proclaims, making a beeline for the cell. Jaron doesn’t look up from turning a coin over in his right hand, even when Jake throws the door open. “Caruso, come on,” the detective says, throwing his head back in a gesture reflecting his words. 

“You letting me go?” Jaron asks, voice neutral; bored, even. Regardless, he stands up tiredly, pocketing the coin and walking over to Jake with an eyebrow raised in question. 

“You wish,” the brunet scoffs, cuffing Jaron once more, leading him out of the holding cell, kicking the door shut clumsily. “ _You_ are going to confess to the arson of café one-eight-four.” 

Jaron snorts as he’s led through the bullpen, and around a corner to the side hallway. It’s all linoleum, cheap and squeaky under his sneakers, and he can’t help but kick at the stuff as he’s brought to an ominous door. 

“Welcome to the interrogation room, short-stack,” Jake proclaims, letting go of the guitarist’s shoulder to open the door. He could swear that Jaron’s right eye twitches at the last phrase, but it’s so minute Jake’s not entirely sure it happened. The door swings in with ease, and the suspect seems to know the drill, walking over to the far seat and sitting down unceremoniously. The room is dark, even with the ceiling light struggling along – it needs replacing. Jaron’s eyes look especially hooded in the dank lighting, and his scowl softens as he shrugs off his green-and-beige jacket, and then throws it on the floor next to his metal chair. 

Jake closes the door, and sort of zones out. He’s just really hoping Jaron did set Café 184 on fire, or at least was some sort of accomplice to the crime so there’s no wrongful arrest issue. 

Said supposed-arsonist raises his cuffed wrists as if to say, ‘Well? Get on with it.’ Really, Jaron’s just accepted his fate of being interrogated for the next few hours, at least. 

Jake undoes and redoes the cuffs to the table, and then takes a seat on the opposite side. “So? Friday night, you were ‘home alone’,” he gestures quotation marks with both hands, “and Café 184 just spontaneously combusted?”

The guitarist scoffs, “I wish you’d spontaneously combust,” he mutters. Jake goes to speak, but Jaron raises a hand, “No, wait. Let me just; in regards to the height joke,” he clears his throat. “How do I loathe thee? Let me count the crows,” Jaron says, leaning down so his cuffed hands can reach to shift the neckline of his sweater and shirt underneath, dragging them down on the left side. The action reveals a tattoo of such a black bird, perched in the middle of his left collarbone, shoulders hunched, and claws curled as if grasping at the bone under its feet, “one, for sorrow.” 

The tattoo is simplistic, but jarring on the guitarist’s pale skin - Jake can also see the telltale ink of another tattoo closer to the shoulder, and sort of wants to know what it is. He’s seen many perps with and without tattoos, so his opinion on them is fairly neutral; Jake just really hates needles, and could never decide on what cool tattoo to get anyway. But the thought of seeing more of the tattoos means the lack of a shirt, and _dammit_ , Jaron is a suspect he’s trying to charge in an arson investigation, not some art piece. He’s pulled from his thoughts as Jaron lets go of the grey sweater, hiding the tattoo once more. 

“How many times have you used that line?” Jake says, trying to keep his voice neutral and condescending. It works. 

“What? _Zitto_ , shut up,” Jaron huffs, looking away from the detective to instead inspect the handcuffs. “You started it, with the short joke. Like I haven’t heard that a million times. You crashed the gig at Vibes for no goddamn reason – sure, Hill had drugs, but that was a noise complaint – and then harassed me at Maria’s Tavern. You know they’re kicking me out of the band, right? Erin and Melissa are fighting Lillian to throw me out. Which, y’know, good luck to them. Band sucks, anyway. ” 

Still shoving away the tattoo train of thought, Jake remembers what Rosa said, and no, this is not like anything to do with how Jake thinks Jaron looks, or acts. Lisa is kind of cool – less so right now because she has terrible communication skills – Sophia was awesome, Amy is awesome, and Jaron, on the other hand, is a probable-arsonist, and a deadpan-snark-ing jerk. Sabrina’s really nice, too, so maybe there’s that if this whole Lisa thing falls through. Jake thinks it will, even though he hates to admit it, even in his mind. 

“So was it boredom? You’re getting kicked from – what’s it called again?” Jake pauses. 

“Virgin Necks. I hate it, but Melissa’s insistent it’s genius.”

“Genius, sure. So, you’ve gotten kicked from Virgin Necks, lost your job at the pizza place-”

“Pancake place.”

“ _Pancake_ place, and you take it out on a nearby café.” 

“You caught me,” Jaron shrugs, raising his hands as far as the table-cuffs will allow, “arsonist extraordinaire. I used my pyrokinesis to set a café I’ve never eaten at on fire. For kicks.” 

“Hah!” Jake exclaims, metal chair legs screeching on the flooring as he stands up, sending the chair almost toppling over. “Confession! You confessed! I knew it,” he says, throwing the door open and rushing out of the room. Jaron stares after the detective with a frown, caught between confusion and disbelief. 

Jake runs to the bullpen, and straight over to Terry, only puffing a little at the effort. The sergeant looks up from his computer in confusion. “I heard your yelling. So Caruso did it? He confessed already?” he asks. 

“Yep, totally got it, Sarge,” the brunet grins, “I just need to get him to write it down, and y’know, give details. And it wasn’t a Molotov, he used something else.” He pauses, waiting to give a dramatic reveal. Jake’s not usually inclined to be so theatrical – more like super awesome, but not quite theatrical – but this can be an exception. “You all thought,” he turns to the bullpen, arms spread in a wide gesture, “we were in for forty-eight hours again. But I have a confession from the suspect.” 

“Way to go, Jake!” Boyle exclaims, running over for a loud high-five. The resounding clap is enough to make Jake recoil slightly from the pain of the impact, shaking out his hand briefly. 

“So what was it?” Terry asks. 

“Pyrokinesis; sounds wicked What is it?” Jake realises he doesn’t exactly know, and turns to the sergeant.

“Aw, boo, unless you’ve arrested a fire spirit, I’m afraid he’s pulling your little leg,” Gina laughs, leaning back in her chair. She types something on her keyboard, and then waves Jake over. He walks to her desk, curious, and sidles over to stand next to the dancer’s chair.

The computer screen displays the results of a Google search for ‘define pyrokinesis’, and Jake’s grin falls. “The psychic ability to set objects or people on fire,” he mutters, reading. The gears turn in his mind, and he stamps his right foot in frustration. “Dammit! I hate this guy.” 

“He just embarrassed you in front of the whole squad,” Gina smiles, “not that you need the help. I’ll have a chat. I already looked up his occupation, I’ll worm the truth out of him, don’t worry.” She stands, patting Jake’s face once before walking off in the direction of the interrogation room. Terry follows as an afterthought, leaving Jake and Boyle near Gina’s desk. 

“Sorry that happened, Jake,” Charles says, offering Jake one of the mini-donuts he’s holding. The brunet takes one in silence, popping the sugary goodness- wait. 

“Gah, Charles! What is _in_ this?” he gasps, trying to chew up the rest of the donut to get rid of it, facial expression positively grotesque. 

“Olives and sweet potatoes are the special ingredients to any good homemade donut,” Charles explains, eating one of said donuts, “see? S’great.” 

And really, Jake can’t help but fake a smile. _Today just keeps getting better and better_ he thinks sarcastically. “What’s the worst that could go wrong from here?” he mumbles, jinxing himself once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jake’s really stressed at the moment in this story, so maybe such a lapse in judgement of Jaron could lead to such an arrest. It’s also curious as to why one of the sketches is so similar…
> 
> Italian:  
> Zitto = Shut up  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Well, What's Wrong with a Little Destruction?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gina does some research, Lisa makes a return, and Jake is curious about tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5,300+ words because I struggled to find a logical place to end the chapter, sorry.  
> Chapter title taken from The Fallen by Franz Ferdinand because I couldn't think of anything else.

**2:13pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 47 hours 27 minutes**

Gina enters the interrogation room with a flourish, green cardigan-clad arms spread in the doorway. “Hello, child,” she says, eyeing Jaron with a calculating smile. 

The suspect gives her a crooked smile, observing Gina as she walks over, leaving the door open, and takes a seat across from him. “ _Ciao amico_ ,” he says, simply glad to not be left sitting there in the room alone. He heard some of the commotion outside – that detective, Peralta, really believed the pyrokinesis thing, which is really beyond the stupidity Jaron thought the NYPD possessed. He guesses it’s just this guy, hopefully. 

“My name is Gina, and you’re going to answer my questions, or face the consequences. What’s your weekly schedule like, hm? Stable career, anybody?” Gina asks, waving a hand in questioning gesture. 

Jaron sighs quietly, moving to lean his elbows on the table and cradle his neck, but the handcuffs restrict such movement, and so he settles with resting his forearms on the smooth metal instead. The hypnosis-like introduction is a little concerning, but since he’s determined to argue his innocence, he answers anyway. 

“Sunday, practice with Virgin Necks. Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday, I play at Jukebox. Thursday, Virgin Necks plays at Vibes. Friday, nothing. Saturday is Vibes again. Like I told the other guy, I got fired from a pancake restaurant Friday morning, and so had nothing the rest of the day,” Jaron explains, shifting his left wrist to move the watch there slightly. It has white roman numerals on a grey face, and a navy band; it’s nice, but a little loose. 

“Virgin Necks, super cute! So Vibes is in Brooklyn, and Jukebox is in…?” Gina trails off, leaning on the table with one arm, palm under her chin.

“Newark,” the younger says, scratching absentmindedly at the rose tattoo on the back of this left hand.

“And the pancake restaurant?” the assistant asks.

“Short Stack Café, in Midtown. People kept making jokes I fit right in, and Friday morning I threw a plate of blueberry pancakes at a customer. They fired me on the spot,” Jaron says, ducking his head in a sheepish manner. 

“Got a temper? I can respect that; tough gig, fast food,” Gina clicks her tongue. “How long have you been playing at each place?”

“Seven months at Vibes, been in the band for nine, the others had been ‘together’ for a month before that. They were terrible. Jukebox,” Jaron glances up at the one-way mirror in thought, and scratches absentmindedly at his cuffed right wrist, “about three months? They only had an opening when their normal Wednesday night smashed her wrist, all through here.” He motions from the middle of the back of his right hand to halfway up his forearm. 

“Yikes, how’d that happen?” the interrogator cringes, one side of her mouth pulled up in disgust.

“Well, I’d already had her spot at the time since she was on vacation in Florida; she fell off some high ropes or something,” Jaron rolls his hazel eyes, gaze flicking over to the door before wandering back to the brunette. “So what’re you? Detective? Officer? Sergeant?”

“I should’ve been born royalty, but here, I work as a personal assistant. My true calling is that of a dancer,” Gina smiles, waving her arms in a wide, fluid motion. 

“My mother used to make me do dance lessons,” the suspect mumbles, and instantly wishes he could just shut up. _You’ve been arrested, not befriended, idiot_ , he thinks, and bites down on his bottom lip in regret. He leans forward a little on the table, hunching his shoulders, appearing even smaller in height than he is.

“I just have natural talent,” Gina sighs prettily, flipping back a lock of straightened hair from her face. 

“Congratulations,” Jaron smiles, voice condescending, but there’s no malice behind it. 

“Thank you, young daffodil, for this conversation,” Gina says, standing up and elegantly sweeping her chair back. Jaron quirks an eyebrow at her, but a smile sneaks onto his lips regardless of her strange words.

-

“Charles, please tell me your motive research has panned out,” Jake asks in exasperation, standing by his friend’s desk. After the donut incident, the brunet had promptly washed out his mouth – chin still dripping with water, he looks at the other detective expectantly. Even the hood of his zip-up sweatshirt is askew, and if that isn’t an indicator of a problem, nothing is. 

“Actually, yes. Your suspect’s father is a restaurant tycoon, so maybe it’s that,” Boyle says, turning his computer monitor to Jake and clicking to a different browser tab. It has a grey-themed page about a string of restaurants, all named _Giovanni’s_. 

_That’s one of the places Sabrina suggested_ , Jake thinks, remembering the tutor’s words on Friday afternoon. He wonders whether he’ll still have to have a tutor session this afternoon, considering the arrest. But no, _This’ll be solved by then_ , he thinks. Hopes. 

“Thanks, I’ll ask him. You want to interrogate him with me?” Jake grins, gesturing his arms out in an inviting gesture. 

“Sure, just let me check on the fermented ghost peppers yoghurt,” Charles replies, moving to open one of his lower desk drawers. 

Jake turns away in disinterest and only slight disgust, calling across the busy bullpen, “How’s it going with the alibi, Amy?”

She looks up from the case file she’s pouring over, and shakes her head regretfully. “Nothing yet. I’m working on pulling bank statements,” she explains, waving a hand at her computer. 

As Jake and Charles are heading towards the hallway, Gina emerges with a determined smile on her face. She sweeps toward her desk, ignoring the detectives. 

“Anything, Gina?” Jake asks, stopping before the hallway wall cuts off from the bullpen. The assistant stops walking, and turns around to face Jake – the other detective has already walked on to stand next to the interrogation room door. 

“No confession, if that’s what you’re asking. Some other interesting information; I’ll look into it,” she replies airily, and turns back in the direction of her desk once more. 

Jake nods, and pushes off the wall he was hanging onto to walk over to Boyle. “Gina doing work? Something’s up,” he mutters. Charles nods in affirmation. Jake then strides in through the open doorway with confidence, grinning despite his previous embarrassment at the hands – words – of the suspect before him. 

“Hey, guilty person,” Jake starts, pulling another chair sitting against the wall and noisily dragging it to the interrogator’s side of the table, sitting down with the back of the chair facing forward. 

Jaron goes from bored observation to annoyed-but-bemused eye-rolling at the brunet’s words, raising an eyebrow at the other detective as if to say, ‘Is this guy for real?’ At the lack of response, the guitarist turns his attention back to Jake with only mild amusement. 

\- 

“Mm, so this is the website, but how do I see previous versions of it?” Gina asks, pink-painted nail pointed at her computer screen. Savant is standing beside her, hunched to get closer to the monitor. She’s on the site for Vibes, and has already scoped out the ‘Live Artists’ section, including their picture and paragraph for Virgin Necks. Jaron looks the same, except for the difference of his jacket being black in the photo. 

“Here, I’ll just,” Savant mumbles, reaching for the keyboard and mouse. There’s a flurry of clicks, and he then picks up his own laptop next to Gina’s computer. He opens the grey device, opening an email and running the sent link through an installed program. The website reappears in a similar browser window, with the exception of the scroll bar being a toxic green, and a side column to the left of the window. “Tada. Just click the different dates on the sidebar to see the updates to the website,” Savant gestures to the list of dates, with notes of changes underneath. 

The latest change to ‘Live Artists’ was a refreshing of all their pictures five months ago, and Gina gracefully swipes across the trackpad, and clicks said link. The timber background remains the same, although there’s slight edits to the paragraphs, font size, and of course, the photos. 

Savant laughs, “I can see why they changed their photos,” pointing to the ones for the musician ‘Malia Walters’ and her pink tutu-and-ukulele combo. 

“What do you think, kid, are those pants leather?” Gina says, waving a manicured nail in the direction of the Virgin Necks photo – namely Jaron, who’s listed as the rhythm guitarist. 

“Looks like,” Savant says, “I have to check up on this scanning program I’m running on my other laptop, can I leave you with this for a few minutes?” 

“Sure,” Gina replies, waving a dismissive hand at the young man. She clicks for an older version of the site, but finds the page didn’t have Virgin Necks listed at the time. She does the math in her head, and yeah, that’s over seven months ago. The assistant saves and emails the band’s photo to herself, and then turns to her normal computer. She finds the website for Jukebox within the minute, and finds they have a similar page. 

It lists more artists; some are weekly, others fortnightly. Instead of finding anyone named Giovanni Caruso, like the file says, or Jaron, like Jake says, she spots the Wednesday artist listed as ‘California Lies’ – an acoustic solo artist. 

The brunette smiles to herself, and sets about further research; music, more photos, that sort of thing. She’d just like to know more about the person Rosa allowed to glue Jake’s chair to the floor, and she herself saw put the air-horn on the same detective’s chair. 

\- 

“Did you burn Café 184 down for your father, the restaurant tycoon?” Charles asks when Jaron refuses to answer to ‘guilty person’. The detective has taken a seat next to Jake, and has his forearms on the table in a manner that he hopes conveys intimidation. The door is closed, and neither of the detectives notice the sergeant walking past, into the other part of the room – on the other side of the one-way mirror that is currently in mirror mode.

Jaron practically snorts at Boyle’s words, “Tycoon? You mean Giovanni Caruso the third. Why would I do that for him?” 

Jake rolls his eyes as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and splays both hands in a ‘duh’ motion. “So Café 184 would sell the land. It’s prime real estate for an expanding franchise.” 

The suspect takes a second to just _look_ at Jake condescendingly – which is kind of difficult when he’s like six inches shorter – through dark eyelashes, and then raises his chin to speak directly, rather than at the table. “There are restaurants owned by my father in Newark, SoHo, upper Manhattan, and Hoboken. Our family house is like a block from the Newark one. Why would he want Brooklyn?” 

“That’s a good point, Jake,” Charles shrugs, turning to his friend. The other detective stands in frustration, and turns the chair around to face to correct way. 

“Whose side are you on?” Jake asks, his voice going a little higher than usual, and sits back down. He slams his hand on the table in frustration, and only winces a little at the pain. “Confess.”

“No,” Jaron shrugs, leaning back in his chair, flicking his head minutely to get a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

“Dammit, Caruso,” Jake beats his palms on the table again, and it actually really _seriously_ hurts this time, making the detective recoil and gasp in pain, much to the suspect’s amusement. 

“Look, can I be escorted to the bathroom, please?” Jaron sighs, “I’d like to temporarily escape this madness, if that’s okay with you.” 

\- 

Amy groans in frustration, unable to work the computer, and really needing to make copies of a few files. Gina walks past from the copy room, printouts in hand, and the detective jumps up from her chair, following the other woman. 

“Gina!” she calls just as the assistant reaches her own desk, “Could you please copy these for me?” 

“Mm, no. I’m already doing work for this case, and although I’m glad you’ve finally recognised me as superior in all aspects, the photocopier is not that hard to use, unless you’re Hitchcock or Scully,” the assistant replies, hand with the papers leaning on the side of her desk, right next to her ‘Fire Spirit’ jar. 

“Please? The copier hates me. It always makes the copies wonky, see; yours-” Amy pauses, reaching for the papers in Gina’s hand. The brunette sweeps her hand back, about to click her tongue at the detective, when Amy overshoots her arm and knocks the jar off the desk, somehow. 

“No!” Gina shouts, but the glass shatters anyway, label lying tattered amongst the shards. At almost the same moment, Jaron appears in the bullpen with the handcuffs tying his wrists behind his back rather than in front of him, Jake and Charles following him closely. The brunet even has a hand on Jaron’s shoulder, guiding/pushing him across the floor. Gina eyes said suspect with an indescribable, calculating sort of look, glancing between the remnants of the Fire Spirit jar and the guitarist. 

“I’m so sorry,” Amy gushes, “I’ll – I’ll get you a new jar.” 

“Jar? Yes. Fire Spirit? Almost irreplaceable,” Gina shakes her head at the distressed detective before her, glancing one last time as the other trio cross the bullpen, “almost. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Are you sure? You’ve never said that to me. I broke one of your pens and you rearranged all my open cases out of order,” Amy eyes the brunette sceptically, tempted to shift her feet, but not really wanting glass embedded in her shoes. She remembers the incident with a cringe – it had taken her _hours_ to get those files back in the order of her very specific system. 

“That wasn’t just _one of my pens_ ,” Gina begins, and then notices someone stepping off the elevator, “oh no. Quick, you shoot her, and I’ll set her on fire!” 

Amy spins around, eyes going wide at the sudden appearance of Lisa, a lump quickly forming in her throat. Across the floor, Jake and Charles also notice – Lisa could never sneak up on anyone if she wanted to, especially when she’s angry – causing the former’s stance to stiffen. 

“You take Caruso, I’ll deal with this,” Jake mutters to his fellow detective, and then abandons him in favour of walking towards his girlfriend. “Hey, Lisa, fancy seeing you here, how are you? Good?” he plasters on a grin, hands on his hips, leaning back slightly in silent laughter. 

“What is wrong with you?” she exclaims, and the precinct falls quiet, all heads turning to the angry blonde – the normally-sweet doctor has an unfortunate taste for the dramatic. 

“Nope,” Jake mumbles to himself, grin remaining despite her harsh words, and drops his hands to his sides. “I haven’t been able to get home, sorry. I should’ve texted you, but my phone ran out of charge and I don’t have any money for the bus…” 

Lisa’s left eyelid twitches in anger, like some sort of _serious_ tick, hands balled into fists at her sides. She’d look kind of epic if her yellow, long-sleeved summer dress was billowing in the wind, but this being inside a police precinct, there is no wind, and she ends up looking like a child having a tantrum. 

Boyle hesitates as opposed to leading Jaron to the fourth floor bathrooms – they’re not the nicest, and seem to be a free-for-all when it comes to secret chats, but it’s better than nothing – but the suspect seems content with leaning against the wall and watching the exchange anyway. Lisa starts yelling again, but the guitarist turns to Charles. 

“What’s this?” he asks, nodding to the commotion. And sure, he could probably figure it out if this devolves into a yelling match, and already has a theory working, but it’s easier to ask. 

“That’s Lisa, Jake’s girlfriend. Or, maybe, ex-girlfriend, they- I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Charles pauses, cautious of the man before him, despite being over a dozen years older and three inches taller. 

The guitarist shrugs, shifting his shoulders and arms in an attempt to move the handcuffs to a new position on his wrists. “Maybe you should step in and stop this,” he says flippantly, nodding to the scene unfolding before them. Lisa has really started shouting, and Jake keeps trying to defend himself. 

Charles makes an aborted step toward the couple, then turns slightly back to Jaron, who is still casually leaning against the wall. “I shouldn’t, it’s their thing. I shouldn’t leave you here, either,” he says, conflicted. 

“Someone should,” Jaron shrugs, nodding to the captain’s office; Holt is taking off his reading glasses, frowning at the commotion. Terry has also rounded the corner from the hallway to the interrogation room. Charles sees these things, and panics. While the detective is fretting over whether it’s okay to step in, or stall the captain, or just stay here, the suspect slinks away. 

Said suspect keeps his posture straight, assuming all the height he can, fingers tugging down his sweater sleeves to cover most of the handcuffs; trying to look like he’s just there at the precinct, and not in police custody. Everyone else is almost frozen in their gaze at the unfolding fight, and so Jaron makes it all the way to about a yard from the couple before Lisa notices him. 

Charles gains enough composure to turn to check on the suspect, only to find he’s disappeared. A quick scan of the precinct reveals his location, and so the detective jogs over hurriedly, just as Holt stands from his chair. 

”Five does not equal six, Lisa; we weren’t dating from when we started talking, I was dating Amy!” Jake says, and although it’s loud and filled with emotion, he’s not red-in-the-face and _screaming_ like his ex-girlfriend is. 

“That is not true, you idiot, I- what do _you_ want?” Lisa rounds on the intruder despite her pissy rant, ceasing her waving arms to clench her fists at her side once more. 

“Jaron-” Jake begins in surprise, forgoing ‘Caruso’ in an attempt to actually get the suspect’s attention. But he’s ignored as Jaron instead directs his words straight at Lisa, scowling at the woman with much more malice than his confused scowls Jake has been subjected to. 

“This is a _police precinct_ , if it’s escaped your notice,” the guitarist snarls at her, “do you really think this is the place to scream excuses for what you did, and blame it all on Jake? And what about you? You turn up here, instead of, I don’t know, _calling_ so you don’t make a fool of yourself.” He’s practically sneering by the end of his small speech, and finishes by flicking his head to ward off the hair intent on getting in his eyes. _Not the best time to be overdue for a haircut_ , he thinks absentmindedly.

“Who are you? You don’t know anything! Get lost!” Lisa shouts, stepping forward to shove the suspect. 

Due to the handcuffs, and Lisa’s surprising speed, she manages to push Jaron hard enough to knock him to the ground. The suspect lands heavily; with his hands behind back, he can’t brace for the fall very well, and so lands on his right hip, followed by his shoulder, and even the right side of his face smacks the hard linoleum with enough force to – at least – bruise. 

“What is going on out here?” Holt asks, tone commanding and booming. Lisa babbles, mouth opening and closing without comprehensible words coming out as the police captain makes his way through the thin, congregated crowd to the commotion

Jaron turtles on the floor, silently cursing being handcuffed behind his back, trying to get back his breath after the fall somehow winded him. 

“ _Pazzo cagna_ ,” he mutters indignantly, continuing to imitate a turned-over tortoise, handcuffs clicking on the linoleum.

“Well? Would someone care to explain?” Holt asks again, expression stern. 

Jake tears his gaze away from the captain, moving instead to help Jaron up from the floor; he grabs the suspect’s left upper arm, short fingernails digging into the sweater as he hauls the fallen man up from the linoleum. 

“You okay?” Jake asks in a rushed voice, well aware that pretty much everyone on the fourth floor – and maybe a group of nosy cops from the third floor – is watching the scene unfold. 

“Fine, thanks,” Jaron breathes lowly as soon as he’s standing upright, dark hair even more of a complete mess than usual; there’s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. He ducks his head as Holt arrives, and Jake could swear there’s a trickle of blood from the suspect’s right brow, but he turns away too fast to really be sure. The detective realises his hands are lingering on Jaron’s arm and shoulder, and so pulls away. 

“Hey, Captain Holt,” Jake doesn’t even try to fake a smile, “I’m sorry, this is on me, I was talking to Lisa and I got carried away-” 

Jaron has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t intervene, because that is _so_ not what happened, but luckily, this Captain Holt seems to know what’s up. 

“Really? Because I saw Ms Becker storm into my precinct, start yelling at one of the nine-nine’s best detectives, and push a handcuffed suspect to the ground, all like a rage-filled animal,” Holt says, voice dripping venom, and looks to Lisa, “I suggest you take your petulant fury elsewhere, before someone gets hurt.” 

Lisa gapes, gaze softening as if she’s on the verge of apologising, and huffs instead. She turns on her literal heels, the wedges squeaking on the floor in protest, and walks through the low gate, to wait for the elevator. 

“Peralta, your suspect is bleeding, I suggest you locate a first aid kit and fix up that cut,” Holt nods to Jake, and walks off to speak to Terry. They converse quietly, with the captain occasionally gesturing to the elevator. 

“Bleeding?” Jaron asks, moving to feel where he’s injured, but is stopped by the handcuffs. _So that isn’t just going to bruise, great_ , he thinks. “Could you please take these off me? I just got shoved to the floor, I’m not going anywhere,” he asks. 

“Sure, um, Boyle!” the detective calls to his friend, and the latter rushes over, red first aid kit in hand. “Keys?”

“Yep,” Charles replies, handing over the large medical bag, and then digging in his beige slacks pockets. He locates the small handcuff key, and swaps the bag for the tiny piece of metal, “here.” 

\- 

**2:38pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 47 hours 02 minutes**

Amy’s looking forward to her late lunch; she’s been flat out trying to work her own open cases, and deal with the mess Jake’s made of the arson investigation. She’d wanted to step in when Lisa went off at Jake, but she thought it would only infuriate the younger woman more. So, she’d hid in the file storage room down the hall while that had gone down, and has only recently returned to the main part of the fourth floor. 

The detective has picked up her packed lunch from the kitchenette fridge and nuked it – Japanese curry today, made two nights ago – and is walking to the break room. Sure, the tables are always a little sticky, no matter how often she cleans them, and the chairs are old, but it’s nice to open the window and have a nice breeze while enjoying some home-cooked food or reheated takeout. However, when she reaches said break room, she finds it to not be as empty as she’d hoped. 

“Jake, what’s going on? No perps in the break room,” she begins, but stops when she sees what’s happening. The brunet is trying – and failing – to apply an adhesive bandage to the skin near his arson suspect’s right temple. 

Charles is there too, sifting through the first-aid kit supplies, only looking up when Amy speaks. “Oh hey, we’re just fixing his face. I mean-” he stutters. 

“I get it. Here, let me,” she places her warmed container on the other edge of the table, and circles around to where Jake had given up and simply let the sticking plaster fall to the table, adding to the stickiness. Amy leans close to the suspect, nudging Jake out of the way with her shoulder. The cut is fairly shallow, but over an inch long, running from the edge of Jaron’s eyebrow to the edge of his cheekbone. “A Band-Aid won’t work,” Amy sighs, and looks to Charles, “can you find any Steri-Strips?” 

“Is it that bad, doc?” Jaron pouts, waiting for a second before grinning. 

“Shush, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Amy mumbles, a small smile sneaking onto her lips. 

Boyle finds the butterfly closures soon enough, and passes them across the timber table. Jake snatches them before they can be received, and peels the protective plastic from one side, and reaches to apply them. 

“Not so fast,” Amy stops him, taking the closures, ripping one into smaller halves before applying them. 

Jaron cringes, but doesn’t whine; before any of them know it, all the pseudo-stitches have been applied to the cut. 

“You’re welcome,” Amy says as she stands back up to her full height, pretending to dust off her hands. 

The suspect raises his right hand to ghost over the closures, “Thank you, sorry. So do you have training, or?” 

“I took an extra course,” Amy shrugs, “and I grew up with seven brothers. There were a few injuries.” 

The guitarist simply smiles in return, and moves to stand from the table, recoiling at the stickiness of the surface. Charles begins to pack up the kit, while Jake debates cuffing the suspect again. 

“I just got patched up, Peralta, cool it. Besides, if I ran, you’d get to tackle me in front of the precinct, and even though that’d be kind of epic, I’m not in the mood for a concussion,” Jaron says, wandering to the door. “Enjoy your lunch, Detective,” he says to Amy, “and thank you for fixing my face.” 

Jake jogs to get ahead of the suspect, walking very close, ready to grab him if he does try to run off. “Time to go confess to arson, right?” he says. 

The suspect scoffs, and chooses to ignore the question, “You are so lucky I didn’t get my lip piercing this morning. You know how much aftercare there is? Freaking saline solution soaks, risk of infection…” 

“I had a nose piercing in high school, and it got infected,” the detective replies as the duo cross the bullpen, headed toward the interrogation room once more. 

“Ouch. So that’s what happened to your face,” Jaron says, grinning up at the brunet as they walk. Jake fake-laughs obnoxiously, refusing to look at the suspect, and curving the corner to the hallway. 

“You’re the one with stitches,” the detective replies. Despite being taller, and thus having longer legs, he seems to be getting overtaken by the younger man. Jake notices, with this new view, that the suspect only has one tattoo visible on his neck. 

A simple bronze crown inlaid with a sparse smattering of jewels emblazons the top of his spine, with the bottom of the right side melting away a little. The detective is so interested in the design, he only really notices they’re back at the interrogation room when the suspect replies to his ‘stitches’ comment. 

“Butterfly closures, not stitches,” Jaron says, wandering into the open door with practised boredom. Despite his hands being free from the cuffs, he doesn’t gesture all that much. Jake wonders if it’ll be all deadpan get-me-out-of-here denial from now on. 

“Anyway, confession time, Caruso,” he says firmly, refusing to focus on anything besides the case from now on. “And don’t worry about rushing through it, we've got all the time in the world.” 

“Oh, I know,” the suspect nods, sitting down in his chair while the detective kicks the door closed, “one of my friends went missing back in ’02, and then I figured it out; he was in police custody. Haven’t seen him since.” 

_And we’re back to sass, great_ , Jake thinks, refusing to smile or laugh at this. “Hah!” he barks instead; it’s somewhere between his previous exclamation about pyrokinesis and laughter. The detective’s face drains of emotion, because _dammit_ , this is an arson investigation, not a comedy gala. Jake is determined to treat this suspect like any other perp, and totally not someone who got pseudo-beaten-up by his recently-ex-girlfriend. 

Jaron frowns at this, expression just shy of his normal scowl-of-confusion-slash-concentration. He then sighs, leaning back from his hunched position to rest comfortably on the chair – well, as comfortable as a police precinct interrogation chair can be. 

“Be right back,” Jake says quickly, and then dashes out of the room. 

-

**Deadline: 46 hours, 52 minutes**

“Please, please-please-please?” Jake begs, hands clasped together. He’s practically bouncing on his toes, shifting from standing flat to rising on the balls of his feet. 

“I don’t know, Jake, do you really think Scary Terry will work? I mean, how do you know the guy even committed the crime?” the sergeant asks sceptically, muscular arms crossed over his white shirt. 

“Because he did! I know it, okay, trust me on this one,” the brunet grins, shaking his joined hands once more, “ _please_?” 

The bullpen has quietened down a bit since Lisa’s outburst; Gina has one earphone in, ‘researching’ something, while still not going against the rule of ‘no headphones’, Amy and Boyle are trying to do proper research, and Rosa is talking to some other officers. 

“Fine,” Terry concedes, letting his crossed arms drop, and accepting the quick hug Jake gives him. The brunet pulls away quickly – not because he doesn’t want to hug Terry, because it’s actually pretty great, but because they have work to do – and practically scampers off to the interrogation room. 

The sergeant follows without complaint, soon catching up to the detective, expression stern as soon as Jake opens the door. The brunet is practically giddy, probably because he’s so sure this’ll work. Terry makes his stance as intimidating as possible when he enters the room. 

Jake’s distracted with pulling up a second chair, and realising it’s good that Jaron’s still here considering he wasn’t handcuffed, that he doesn’t notice the suspect’s change of apparel until he and the sergeant as both seated, door closed. 

Having taken advantages of the lack of handcuffs, the guitarist has shed his grey sweater – now lying in a small heap with the camouflage jacket – instead revealing the plain, black long-sleeve he’s been wearing underneath. 

Although the crewneck cut of the shirt doesn’t show any more torso skin than before, he pushes the sleeves up to his elbows one at a time, leaving his forearms on display on the table. Jaron doesn’t have full tattoo sleeves by any means, but there are a few, and _wow that rose is really detailed_ , Jake thinks distractedly as the suspect swipes his left hand at his still-slightly-dishevelled hair.

“So, you think you can set fire to a café and get away with it?” Terry says, putting the palms of his hands flat on the table, leaning forward in his chair. This is only the beginning of Interrogator Scary Terry, and Jake is very glad he chose the sarge to help with this part of the investigation. 

Jaron huffs at this – it’s almost a scoff – and his gaze flits from the sergeant to the door. _Here we go_ , he sighs internally, and despite the temptation of putting on a confident façade, he slumps back in his chair, thinking, _this is going to take a while_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Unedited)
> 
> I searched around the interwebs for mentions of tattoos on the show, and could only come up with humorous dialogue shared by the Vulture and Jake somewhere or something, so I just made up stuff to do with tattoos.  
> I also made up whatever supposed program/thingo Savant uses to get previous versions of a website (I don't even really know if it's entirely possible but oh well).  
> My counting with the Deadline is guesswork, but hopefully it's logical enough.
> 
> Italian:  
> Ciao amico = Hello friend  
> Pazzo cagna = Crazy bitch  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	10. There Has to Be a Rule Against That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Very cereal."
> 
> Not much progress is made for the case, Jake has endless desk trash, Gina makes a new friend, and the deadline creeps closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I'm beginning to think this sort of word count might become a trend in this work (4700+ words) but no promises. Thanks for any feedback/kudos/bookmarks, they're greatly appreciated.

**3:02pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 46 hours, 38 minutes**

“I say we look into the other suspects, maybe get a line-up so the witnesses can pick them out. Oaks and Hangmire are our best bets, we just have to track down the first one,” Amy says, pouring coffee into her mug with practised ease. She and Rosa are hovering by the coffee machine in the break room, beyond annoyed at the unfolding arson case. 

“Get Savant or one of the new officers to work on finding Oaks. I’ll chase up the witnesses, see if they can come in for the line-up,” Rosa nods, almost finished her own sweet caffeinated drink. 

“I found a bank statement for a convenience store nearby, but I don’t think it proves anything,” Amy shrugs, stirring in sugar. 

“Give it to Jake anyway; it might give Caruso an alibi, so he’ll be dropped,” the other detective says, and turns to walk to the door, “see you.” 

Amy gives her an appreciative nod, lips slightly pursed and eyes squinting a little – trying to look hip/cool/casual, in her opinion. Rosa frowns at this and shakes her head before walking off into the bullpen. 

-

“Well, that was a bust,” Jake huffs in frustration, dumping Caruso’s file on his desk as Santiago exits the break room. He kicks his chair out from the desk to flop down on the fake leather, slumped with fatigue. Terry stands near the detective, a sympathetic frown on his face. 

“I know it’s hard to interrogate perps when they talk to you like he does,” the sergeant says, raising his hands as he shrugs. 

-

After Terry had run through most of his Scary Terry material – receiving a singular raised eyebrow from Caruso at the mention of the farmer’s market – and the suspect still hadn’t shown a sign of cracking, Jake took over once more. He’d gotten over the tattoos, thanks to having had a few minutes to zone out and analyse. Pure detective work, of course.

“We have your motive, and you have no alibi,” Jake said as if it were fact. He had a determined expression on his face as he stared directly at Jaron. “You might as well give up now and confess, so we can move on with other, more important cases.” 

“Oh, sure – murder, and don’t forget the ever-present issue that is tricycle theft,” Jaron rolled his eyes, and then went back to glaring. His voice lowered to a snarl, “You know I didn’t light up that café, so stop trying to prove some silly vendetta against me, and find the person who actually did it.” 

“You! It was you!” Jake exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. 

“ _Ti odio_ ,” the guitarist muttered, “me and my pyrokinesis, right? Oh, wait, no, I have this sci-fi gun that shoots fireballs, it’s at my apartment. Forgot to tell you about that.” 

Terry frowned at Jaron, perplexed at how much this suspect does _not_ care about self-incrimination. He also considered talking to the captain concerning suspending Jake if this doesn’t pan out. 

-

“He’s just _insane_ ,” Jake says, throwing his hands in the air once more in annoyance, “I mean, who sets a café on fire and then pretends not to have done it?” He smiles, head leant back slightly as if speaking to the sky, or something. 

“I’ll check up on how the rest of the squad are doing,” Terry adds with a frown, concerned for his friend. The detective lowers his hands from the air, placing them instead on his hips and huffing out a sigh. He’s standing by the sergeant’s desk, biting his bottom lip in thought, considering what he should do next with this whole debacle. 

**4:44pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 44 hours, 56 minutes**

“So, what have you found for the Café 184 arson?” Holt asks, seated in his office’s chair, looking at the three detectives standing on the other side of his desk expectantly. He has his reading glasses on, and despite normally being unreadable he has an air of fatigue and annoyance. 

“I’ve organised a line-up for tomorrow morning, first thing. Our two witnesses will have three of our suspects there, and three lookalikes from the precinct,” Amy nods, binder in hand. “I’ve compiled research for the case, so we can get the arsonist and go home, no thanks to Peralta,” she gestures to said detective with her free hand. 

“I found Julian Oaks; he said he’ll turn up tomorrow because he won’t be picked, and has an alibi. I’m going to check it out,” Rosa says before the brunet can reply to Amy. Her arms are crossed casually, her stance relaxed – as relaxed as she can be at work, that is. 

“ _I_ found another old croissant in my desk,” Jake begins, and then shakes his head, “seriously, Gina’s been actually doing stuff _not on her phone_ these past few hours, and I’m concerned. Captain, have you asked her to do anything?” 

“No, Gina has told me she’s been doing research for your case,” Holt says slowly, suddenly questioning if it has indeed been for the crime rather than something like the Dance-y Reagans. 

“I’ve seen her go into the interrogation room with Caruso like five times,” Rosa supplies, “usually with a file, sometimes with food. It’s weird.” 

“Well, at least the suspect we have under arrest with no evidence will remain _alive_ ,” Holt sighs. “Peralta, talk to Gina. She might not have a confession, but she could have a lead. Diaz, Santiago, once you’ve done all you can, you’re welcome to go home – I trust you’ll work to your full potential.” 

“Thank you sir, that so much means to me,” Amy gushes with a smile, and then frowns when she realises her words. 

“Thanks, Yoda,” Jake laughs, “Captain, if you don’t know who that is, it’s pretty much Amy, except cool, and green, and-”

“Don’t make me consider organising a tutor for you, Santiago,” Holt nods to Amy, and then looks at Jake, “Get back to work. This is your mess; don’t let the rest of the squad be burdened by your impulsiveness, again. Dismissed.” 

Amy leaves the office, discouraged, while Rosa gives a smirk before becoming deadpan once more. Jake makes finger guns at the captain, and then follows the other detectives out into the bullpen. He stops a yard beyond the doorway, and spins on his heel. 

“Wait, what’s going on with tutoring? Because, y’know, of this _case_ ,” Jake shrugs with a smile, leaning on the door frame and hoping to worm his way out of having to be educated about numbers. 

“It’s only for an hour, Peralta, and you have,” Holt pauses to check his wristwatch, “just under forty-five of those left. Ms Gerald is not to be disadvantaged because of your mistake.” 

Jake nods, stance a little less confident than usual as he exits the office. He goes to speak to Gina, but she’s not at her desk. Her phone isn’t there, so it can’t be that much of a disaster, but she’s still missing. 

“Gina?” he calls, and then addresses Terry, “Have you seen Gina anywhere?” 

“Interrogation room,” the sergeant replies through a mouthful of honey yoghurt, pointing with his thumb in the direction of said room. 

Jake makes a beeline for the room, and quickly reaches the closed door. He pauses when he sees the missing brunette talking to Caruso, and rethinks the approach of ‘barge in and wing it until we get a confession’. Instead, he walks the few extra feet to the side-room. The one-way mirror is on, he assumes, because when he goes into the storage/observation room – closet – Jaron doesn’t notice. All Jake has to do is turn the interrogation room’s microphone on, and double-check his is off before he can start getting a good idea of what’s going on. 

“-online. Nowhere sells them! Or, nowhere I want to be seen, y’know?” Jaron laughs, an easy smile on his face. The detective can’t see Gina’s face, as she’s seated with her back to the mirror, but he’s sure she’s smiling too. 

“Yes! The place I get my knock-off designer bags from stopped making one that got stolen, so I had to find somewhere that still had some. I went to the skeeziest shops, but I found it,” she says. 

There are papers and pictures strewn across the table, but the detective can’t really see what they are in the bad lighting of the other room. Jake can see, however, the way Caruso’s posture is more relaxed. He’s leant forward, forearms on the table, and how a smile can really light up his face 

“Awesome,” Jaron grins, and then sighs with a smile, “I can’t believe you found those pictures. It’s so embarrassing.” He leans to paw at one of the papers closer to Gina, much to her amusement. It’s the one from the Vibes website, taken five months ago, though Jake can barely see that it’s people. 

“Maybe with the people you’re standing next to, Luke and Melissa, right?” the assistant asks, tracing a manicured nail over the picture. 

“Yeah, Luke’s the one they found drugs on,” the suspect rubs the heel of his left hand over the corresponding eye, barely concealing a yawn. “Melissa’s usually lead guitar, but she’s doing bass at the moment because Hill got busted.” 

“So who’s lead?” Gina asks, leaning her chin on her right hand, propped up on the table. 

“Erin. She’s usually the singer, but her doctor ordered vocal rest,” Jaron shrugs. 

“So who’s singing now?” 

Another sigh, followed by the guitarist pulling down the sleeves of his shirt to his wrists, covering up his forearms once more. “Me.” 

“Are you familiar with the glorious piece or musical artwork that is She Works Hard for the Money?” Gina grins, picking up her phone with her left hand to check for texts. 

The guitarist’ frown as he answers, “Donna Summer? Yeah. I don’t play it, but it’s pretty cool.” He’s still wearing the same black shirt, but the sweater and jacket at on the back of his chair, visible by their sleeves, instead of on the floor. 

Jaron’s eyes flit up to Jake, and for a terrifying second the detective thinks the mirror is off and it’s been an indoor window this whole time. Jake’s heart is saved from imploding, however, when Caruso cards his fingers through his hair, fluffing up the black locks a little more. 

Jake breathes a sigh of relief, just as Gina speaks. “Sometimes I’m tempted to sit in here and look at my reflection, but the Wi-Fi is terrible,” she says, turning briefly to look in the one-way mirror and purse her lips, before turning back to the suspect. “So, can you sing it?” 

“Yeah? I mean, it’ll sound weird without music, but y’know,” Jaron practically _beams_ , shrugging. Jake sort of wants to see such a smile on the other man’s face more, but he stamps the feeling down in an instant. 

As Jaron begins a tentative rendition of the Donna Summer song, the brunet marches out the door. He’s determined to escape this, to get enough evidence to send Caruso to jail and out of his head. 

When Jake returns to the bullpen, the tutor is waiting by his desk. She has one hand curled around the strap of her messenger bag, the other in the pocket of her navy blazer. Her button-up blouse isn’t fitting like Amy’s usually are, but instead fairly loose. 

Sabrina smiles when she spots the detective, but it doesn’t reach her eyes; her shoulders are in a slight slouch, stance weak, as if she’s about to fall asleep. Jake’s really considering telling her that he’s too busy for tutoring and to take a nap instead, but Captain Holt’s words return to his mind about not wasting her time. 

“Hi,” Sabrina says when Jake is a few yards from his desk, voice scratchy as if she’s ill, “is something going on? There’s still so many people here.” 

“You sure you’re not a cop?” Jake laughs, easily forgetting the whole suspect situation in favour of teasing the tutor. 

“Not quite, especially not now,” she laughs. 

“Sick?” Jake asks, for once using the traditional meaning of the word. 

The blonde nods, tucking a stray lock behind her ear – despite her black headband, straight sections of her hair seem intent on escape. “Sore throat, sort of- it’s fine, I’m not contagious,” she laughs, “so, anything you have in mind?” 

“Well, I actually have this suspect,” Jake says, growing sheepish, “that I might’ve arrested without evidence. So I’m not sure.” 

“Oh,” Sabrina raises both eyebrows, pale lips forming a corresponding ‘o’ shape. She nods, expression returning to normal when she speaks again, “maybe just fixing your desk, then? Mind-numbing organisation?” 

“Sounds good,” Jake huffs with a smile – the stress of the past few days is really starting to get to him, so yeah, maybe some pointless cleaning will help. 

**5:49pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 43 hours, 51 minutes**

Almost the whole hour is spent filling the various trash cans on the fourth floor with Jake’s new and old desk-garbage. But ten minutes shy of the end, the conversation dies out entirely. Jake has told the story of how bad Maria’s Tavern really was – not naming Caruso or really mentioning him at all – which was met with a kind-hearted ‘I told you so’. 

Sabrina fills the new silence as she neatens the final papers on the top of the desk with just about the worst possible question, in Jake’s opinion. “So, what’s the case that’s got you held up?” she asks. 

“Arson,” Jake shrugs, trying to beat down the trash in the bin by his desk with his canvas shoe, “Café 184, near here.” 

“Aw, I liked that place,” Sabrina whines, “I mean, I’ve kind of gone off their food lately, but it’s still good. That’s a real shame.” She stops rearranging papers to look at the detective, “Who’s the scumbag who did it?” she says in a stern voice, but a smile sneaks onto her lips seconds later. 

“Jaron Caruso. He’s been making fun of me all day,” the brunet shrugs, giving up on reducing the rubbish pile any more. “Gina, Captain Holt’s assistant, is interviewing him right now; she’s been in and out of interrogation since I brought him in.” 

Sabrina hums in thought. “If you’re still frustrated, we could always make faces at them through the one-way glass?” she suggests, “I’ve always wanted to do that, even if they can’t see us.” 

Jake’s eyes light up, a goofy grin on his face, “It is the _most_ fun because they can’t see you! Crazy, right?” 

The tutor nods in response, and stands from the office chair slowly. Abandoning the nearly clean desk, the pair walks off to the hallway, catching no-one’s notice thanks to either fatigue or hard work. 

No-one is in the side-room, and so all they have to do is dodge some stray boxes and double-check the controls before it’s face-making time. Jake goes straight classically just screwing up his expression, much like when he did an impression of the supposed Lost Grandmother. Sabrina’s eyes are wide, head retracted close to her neck, creating many chins despite her relatively slim build. 

It’s not that fun, though, when Jaron’s singing again – the song playing when the band was arrested at Vibes, by the sound of it – while Gina is tapping away at her phone and moving her head slightly to the song. He’s almost at the end of the song, voice clear but not overconfident, and more forlorn than Jake remembers the song being.

“Wait, is that-?” Sabrina’s expression relaxes and then contorts into confusion. She leans forward, resting her hands on the controls for the mirror. Jaron finishes the song with a shy smile while Gina claps happily for a few seconds. 

“I’m trying to rearrange practice days with my dance group so I can go to Jukebox,” she explains with a smile, continuing to text once more, “we’re called the Dance-y Reagans.” 

“Good name, you’ll have to tell me of your next performance,” Jaron nods and then he looks up to the mirror again. Only this time, his smile drops to be replaced by a scowl directed at the detective. “It appears we have an audience,” he grumbles. Recognition flickers in his eyes as he scans Sabrina, but the scowl only softens a little. 

The tutor flinches away from the controls in surprise, as Gina turns in her chair. “Oh hey Jake!” she grins, “hey stranger. Great, right?” 

The guitarist’s expression goes deadpan at the praise, ducking his head to look at the table. 

“I know, right? I was at Vibes, on Saturday!” Sabrina exclaims, one hand hitting the glass in her excitement. Jake looks at her with surprised confusion. 

“What is happening?” he says, waving his hands in disbelief. 

\- 

**8:00am, 99th Precinct, Tuesday**

**Deadline: 29 hours, 40 minutes**

Despite her moment of Crisis-Induced Sympathy, Rosa did not let anyone stay at her apartment Monday night. She offered Jake a ride to his apartment, but he’d declined. And so, everyone on the squad but Diaz and Holt have been stuck sleeping on the couches in the break room or at their desks, with sore backs to prove it. 

“I hate you so much,” Amy grumbles as she cracks her spine, and then walks into the briefing room. She’s stolen another one of Terry’s fat-phase t-shirts, this time with a fake seat belt on the front instead of a racist slogan. 

“Despair not, Santiago; today is line-up day, and you know what that means?” Jake is already awake and grinning, his hands loosely gripping the lectern of the room, while the rest of the detectives and the sergeant file in. 

“We get to see you arrested the wrong guy,” Amy crosses her arms as she takes a seat. Rosa guffaws, leaning back in her own chair. 

“ _No_ ,” Jake sneers, “at ten o’clock, when the witnesses and suspects will be brought in, and you’ll see, I got the right guy.” 

Gina frowns at this, but continues to tap at her phone instead of giving a reply. 

Terry walks from the far end of the room to the lectern, standing beside Jake as he speaks. “There’s pressure from the DA, and some talk about Major Crimes getting involved if Peralta’s wrong. We have just under thirty hours, but I know we can do this, if we manoeuvre past a certain mistake,” he glances to Jake, and then looks back to the rest of the team, “focus is on the line-up and the witnesses, people. Dismissed.” 

Most of the squad – plus Gina – and other officers that have joined the investigation all stand to wander out of the room, muttering about anything from coffee breaks to Molotov cocktails. Boyle remains, going over to Jake. 

“Hey, buddy, don’t worry, you’ve got this. You’re the best, right?” Charles smiles, placing a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I just can’t believe it happened again. But we got Whitman, so we can get Caruso, even if Gina is intent on befriending the guy. Isn’t there a rule against that?” Jake frowns as they wander out of the briefing room and into the bullpen. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, devoid of a jacket, and bathed in old deodorant he found in his desk yesterday in the clean out. 

“Well, no. But I think there’s something social against dating criminals, so… anyway, what’re you going to do until ten?” Charles asks as they stop just by the door to the captain’s office. 

“Research, another crack at the suspect; I’m going to talk to Holt once he’s off the phone,” he nods to the office, “what about you?” 

“I forgot about the desk yoghurt and now it’s ruined, so I’m going to restart that. This is going to set me back months,” Charles sighs. 

“Sorry about that. Oh, he’s off the phone, gotta go,” Jake says quickly, turning away from his friend and opening the captain’s door with a plastered-on grin. “Hey, Captain. How goes?” 

Holt looks up from his laptop with an annoyed frown, “Terribly. You arrested a suspect without evidence, and thus have put pressure on the entire squad. Also, Gina has been live-tweeting her interactions with the suspect. Though she hasn’t mentioned the investigation, her bias is… astounding.” 

“Yeah, strange times,” Jake bites his lower lip, and sets his hands on his hips. “But there’s the line-up today, so it’ll probably weed out a confession.” 

Holt nods in assent, “Indeed. Or, it could confirm a different suspect. Even if this does pan out, I don’t want it to happen _ever again_.” 

“Yes sir,” Jake grins, doing a mocking salute before scampering out the door, headed straight to the interrogation room. Yesterday afternoon was the last time he spoke to Jaron, disgruntled after Sabrina admitted she’d enjoyed the band’s show on Saturday, and spoken to Jaron about it at the time. Gina hasn’t spoken to Jake that much – at least, not about the case – and instead spent most of her time practising dance in the evidence locker, or on her phone with headphones on despite the rule against them. 

Luckily, he passed the assistant at her desk, so as he opens the door to the interrogation room, the only occupant is Caruso. Jake’s practically thrown open the door, so it hits the wall in a wide arc, waking the suspect. 

Jaron opens his eyes through many blinks, scowling at once, lifting his head from his right shoulder and straightening in the chair. “ _È già mattina? Serio_?” he mutters when he sees Jake, letting his head loll back once more. 

“Very cereal,” the detective nods, closing the door to stride to his seat with revitalised energy. Sleep tends to do that, even if it’s in his glue-ridden office chair. The three cups of coffee might also have an effect… 

The suspect straightens his neck once more, leaning to slump forward on the table, arms flattened but elbows bent to bring his hands to rest under his chin. “That’s not what I said,” he argues, and then badly stifles a yawn, “though I wouldn’t object to cereal.” He raises an eyebrow at the detective in question. 

“Did you eat last night?” Jake asks, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, cursing the stupid necktie he’s normally grown accustomed to, but when he’s been wearing it for almost a day straight, it’s a bit much. 

Caruso’s eyelids are still very hooded from sleep, gaze interrupted by heavy blinks. With unkempt hair in the path of his vision, Jaron glances away from the detective to stare at the wall opposite the door. “Yeah. Gina Linetti gave me tinned peaches from some shop called Babylon,” Caruso says, lifting his right hand from under his chin to ghost over the butterfly closures beside his right eye. He hisses when he presses too much, muttering something in Italian and returns his hand under his jaw once more. 

“You’re relaxed for someone in police custody,” Jake muses, eyebrows raised in question. He’s not amused, though, looking at the pseudo-stitches and the bruises blossoming purple around it. Guilt constricts his chest, throat feeling as if it’s closing up a little – it might have been Lisa who pushed Caruso, but she was there for Jake. 

Jaron rolls his eyes, looking to the detective once more, oblivious to any inner turmoil. “You have no evidence, and, I don’t know, about a day to make up something to convict me. Do you have the time right now?” he asks with a slight nod to Jake’s hand resting lazily on the table. 

The brunet checks his wrists, and shakes his head, “Should really get a clock in here,” he hums in thought. 

“Wait, let me check the time,” Caruso says with faux enthusiasm, pushing off the table as far as the handcuffs allow, and holds out the restraints in waiting. 

Jake reluctantly reaches across the table, unlocking the cuffs with the tiny key. The guitarist mumbles a ‘thank you’, and scoots backwards in his chair. 

“Would you look at that, it’s time for me to go home,” Jaron continues, lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal a pocket watch tattoo just above the front of his left hip. It has the appearance of brass, metal sides and glass face highlighted with traces of purple. 

A lump forms in Jake’s throat, and it takes a second for the words to tick over in his head. “Are all your tattoos jokes? And, well, that says twelve o’clock, so, you’re wrong,” he laughs awkwardly, sitting up straight. He tells himself it’s enhancing an air of authority, and not because he needs a little distance from the suspect. 

“None are jokes, except the rose on my hand. Also, the pocket watch is at one fifty-nine,” Jaron says slowly, “Are you sure you’re an accomplished detective?” 

Jake really has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to hold back the usual line of ‘What are you doing after this?’ that follows such comments because _no, this is so not the right time or the right person,_ but it’s hard to concentrate when he can see that tattoo and the lines of others just out of sight. It’s a tennis-ball-sized piece of art, all Roman numerals and disappearing linking chain curling around the suspect’s side, and Jake wonders why one fifty-nine… 

Thankfully and unfortunately, depending which way Jake considers it, the suspect drops the hem of the shirt, covering the ink once more. The suspect seems to take the silence as being intended and totally not because Jake couldn’t tear his gaze from the tattoo. 

“Whatever,” the guitarist huffs, crossing his arms and shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. “I didn’t get much sleep, thanks. Chair was super comfy.” 

“You could be at home, out on bail, if you’d just give up. Let’s play a game, called ‘Confess’. See, I’ll explain the crime, and you’ll tell the truth that you did it,” Jake says with a faux smile. 

“Counter-game,” Jaron returns the smile with even more cheesiness, “‘Set Detective Peralta on Fire’.” 

The detective just stares back, forcing a glare. He’s saved from having to reply when the interrogation room door swings inward. 

“Your phone’s been going off for the past _fifteen minutes_. Take it around with you next time, Grandma Peralta,” Rosa says, wearing a dark blouse instead of her usual leather jacket. She tosses the smart phone to the brunet, ignoring the suspect entirely. While the phone is still in the air, Rosa turns on her heel, walking away with firm steps. 

Jake catches the phone with ease, frowning at the lit-up screen; calls and texts, mostly from Lisa. He holds back a sigh, breath catching in his throat. He nods despite Rosa’s absence, and stands from his chair with a scrape of its legs on the floor. 

“This isn’t over. You are not getting away with this,” he snaps at Caruso, pointing to the suspect before pocketing the phone despite its incessant tones. 

Jaron gives the detective a saccharine smile, leaning forward to rest his right elbow on the table, corresponding hand cradling his jaw. “ _Addio, nonna_ ,” he says, waving idly to Jake. The handcuffs lie forgotten on the table. 

As soon as the frowning brunet leaves, closing the door behind him, Jaron sighs, leaning on the table once more. He ignores the edge of worry about what could make someone’s phone keep going off for a quarter of an hour, silently telling himself he does _not_ care if something’s wrong. 

“Just the next twenty-four hours, then I can go home,” he mutters, shifting his head as it lies on his arms. Sleep arrives soon after the suspect closes his eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Italian:  
> Ti odio = I hate you  
> È già mattina? Serio? = It’s morning already? Seriously?  
> Addio, nonna = Bye, grandma  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	11. Babylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, with everything banking on the witnesses and the line-up, there's time for Babylon shenanigans. And breakfast, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really remember where Babylon was, but I think it was a different floor/basement level, so let's just go with that. This was going to be the line-up chapter, with some actual explanations about the case, but oh well. Next time, I promise. Sorry for the wait.

**8:43am, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 29 hours, 7 minutes**

Jaron stares at his haggard reflection in the mirror of the small bathroom. He’d love to simply splash water on his face, now that he’s relieved himself and has washed his hands. Instead, his fingers curl around the edges of the clean ceramic sink, lungs taking and expelling air in gradual shudders. 

Gina dropped by soon after Jake – Detective Peralta, Jaron reminds himself, because he refuses to humanise his arresting officer – left the interrogation room. After a quick, albeit sleepy, greeting, he’d asked to go to the bathroom, and the brunette had smiled. She said she’d love to take him to Babylon, and then she’d find some sort of breakfast. Jaron has discovered Babylon is not, in fact, a shop, but rather a well kept, secret bathroom in a downstairs file room. 

The assistant is waiting on the other side of the stack of file boxes, phone in hand. She’s refrained from live-tweeting this, especially considering no one is to know about Babylon. Well, besides her, Rosa, Charles, and – though forbidden from entering – Scully and Hitchcock. Jake, Amy and the captain are still in the dark about the small oasis, and Gina intends for it to stay that way. 

The guitarist removes his right hand from the sink to let the pads of his fingers ghost over the butterfly closures. He winces, and moves on to the bruises. Thankfully, none have swelled around his eyes, and instead colour the upper right side of his face in ugly blues and purples. He’s brought the gunmetal-grey sweater with him, intending to swap it for the shirt. 

Jaron carefully washes his face, avoiding the closures that seem to be doing their job. A renewal of water makes its way a little too high and into the guitarist’s hair; he groans, trying to disperse it. 

“You okay in there, kiddo?” Gina calls, not looking up from her texts. She’s wearing a pastel-themed floral blouse with a black skirt, lovely brown hair straightened rather than curled. Jaron had complimented her appearance when she’d visited the interrogation room, and though it might have been a thing of manners rather than an initial thought, it was genuine. 

“Yep,” the suspect huffs back, abandoning his hair to pull his shirt up, preparing to pull on the sweater resting over the handtowel holder. His scrambling fingers grasp at the back of the shirt’s neck, tugging up. 

But Jaron’s arms seem to be tangled, shirt almost completely off, with just his head and arms trapped in the cloth. He leans forward, trying to aggressively pull the fabric off, but to no avail. 

“Gina?” he calls out, voice muffled and defeated. 

“Yeah?” she replies. 

“ _Uffa,_ ” Jaron huffs, and then raises his voice just loud enough to be heard through the boxes, “I’m stuck.” 

“Huh?” Gina asks, clicking her phone to sleep with a telltale lock noise and then hauling the boxes to the side once more. She laughs quietly when she sees the suspect’s predicament; hands in the air, head masked by the shirt, arms all a-tangle. “You want help?” 

Jaron nods in defeat, a muffled ‘yes’ escaping the shirt. Gina pockets her phone, and reaches up to ‘help’. She sorta tugs, and kinda pulls, but she’s really just stalling a little. 

“Stubborn, isn’t it?” she says, and sarcastically thinks, ‘ _such a shame_ ’. 

-

Jake has put his personal life on hold for this case, almost entirely – the advantage of not having friends out of work usually covers this, but this time there’s the Lisa problem. He sent texts to Lisa explaining he’s much too busy to sort this out because a criminal could walk free if the squad don’t solve this. Then he turned his mobile off like a mature adult, and stuffed it in a desk drawer with his eyes closed. Totally grown-up, responsible behaviour. 

No one has made any progress with the case just yet, but Rosa’s gone with Amy to get Julian Oaks and try to find Hangmire, and the line up is fast approaching. After disposing of the phone and talking to Charles about the restaurant possibility, Jake still wants to take another crack at the suspect, just in case. Acoustic guitar in hand from evidence lockup, the brunet makes his way to the interrogation room, ready to give Jaron a very mean awakening. 

When he pushes open the door, however, the suspect is nowhere to be seen. Jake throws his head back with an annoyed groan, leaving the door open to stomp out into the bullpen. 

“Gina, where’s-” he begins, only to see the assistant is also missing. He whirls to face Boyle instead, frowning at the other detective’s choice of a vomit-green shirt. “Charles, where’s Caruso?” Jake asks in exasperation. 

Charles looks up from his computer, jumping up from his chair, alert. Despite being very particular about food, the detective seems to be fine with less-than-desirable sleeping conditions. 

“Gina took him to…” Charles trails off, lips pursed, conflicted about continuing. 

“Where?” Jake persists, placing the guitar on the other detective’s desk to settle his hands on his hips. 

“You can’t tell anyone about it,” Boyle says in a hushed tone. 

Jake recoils, frowning. 

Charles shakes his head, trying to recover his words. “No, no; it’s this bathroom, downstairs. It used to be the old captain’s private bathroom or something, and Gina and Rosa have converted it into what they call Babylon. I went there to talk on the phone to Vivian when… anyway; I think that’s where they went. I could take you?” 

“Yep,” Jake nods, “let’s go.” 

Soon enough, the brunet is bounding through the door to the other level’s file storage room, ready to scope out the supposed Babylon and retrieve the suspect Gina seems to have taken under her wing. He spots the brunette first, and speed-walks ahead of Boyle to reach her. When Jake arrives there, however, he sees Gina most certainly has the suspect with her. 

Long-sleeve shirt wrapped around his midair arms, Jaron seems to be flailing in an attempt to escape the dark fabric’s confines. Gina is pretending to help, and only really manages to push the neck down far enough for the suspect to see. He shakes his head, eyes locking with Jake’s. 

In a panic, Jaron wrenches his arms from the assistant, fingers tugging at the cloth once more. 

“Oh hey, Jake, we’ve just encountered a small wardrobe malfunction,” Gina explains breezily, not really helping anything.

“Can see that,” Jake manages to choke out a reply. He frowns to mask any other reaction besides confusion, considering he’s really struggling to not appreciate seeing more of the tattoos that litter the suspect’s lean torso. And then there’s also the expanse of smooth, pale skin- 

“And if you tell anyone about Babylon, I’ll murder you, and the case will be forever unsolvable,” Gina adds as an afterthought, taking her phone from her left skirt pocket. She switches between resuming her constant texts and glancing up to the trio around her. 

Jaron manages to finally, _finally_ shuck the shirt from his arms, and crumples it into a fabric ball. He throws it to the floor with a vengeance, slightly broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. No one speaks, and instead Gina gives the detectives a small shrug, while Charles looks worriedly to Jake, who seems content with staring at the suspect’s moderately tattooed torso. 

There’s a smattering of unrelated designs on Jaron’s chest, most notably a flaming sun on one shoulder and a crater-riddled moon on the other. Jake sees the crow is there, too, and the purplish pocket watch, and- 

“Good morning,” Caruso nods to the detectives, hands on his hips. “I’m just gonna-” he nods to the sweetly scented room behind him, stray locks of hair falling in front of his right eye. His gaze has lost its panic and nerves, replaced by something searching. 

“By all means,” Boyle says in an awkward, high-pitched squeak, gesturing an agreeing wave. It might not be because he’s embarrassed, per se, but he can certainly read Jake’s unease and that’s enough to trigger a squeak. 

“ _Grazie_ ,” the suspect nods once more, hands falling to his sides, and spins on his heel to return to the bathroom. “Of all the stupid times to get my shirt stuck,” he huffs, trudging to retrieve the sweater the handtowel rack. He pulls it over his head with only slightly shaking hands. He figures taking a minute to collect his thoughts – because being stuck in a shirt devoid of wearing such an item was totally not how he wanted to speak to anyone at the police precinct, or anywhere else – would be suspicious, and then walks back out to the silent trio. 

Gina hands him the shirt he’d thrown to the floor, and pats his shoulder. “What’d you want for breakfast?” she asks, “I’m sure I can find some slightly edible food around here.” 

“Anything would be amazing, thank you,” Caruso says with a small, forced smile, and then turns to Jake. “Time to go confess, right?” he asks. 

Jake takes a small step back, sneakers squeaking on the laminate flooring, “Really?”

“No,” the suspect laughs, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down, “ _Non ero io._. Though, I’d like to know why that sketch looks like me.” 

Jake shrugs, adjusting the pushed-back hood of his navy sweatshirt. “There’s a line up at ten o’clock, with the witnesses we got the sketches from. They’ll pick you, and then you’ll confess, ta-da. Case solved,” he waves his hands in an outward, opposite spiral motion, palms-up; a condescending gesture. 

“ _Continua a sognare,_ ,” Jaron scoffs without his usual malice. 

“Time to go, the Wi-Fi is _terrible_ down here,” Gina says before anyone else can interrupt, pushing the boxes concealing Babylon back into place. She steps through the group, and walks past them to exit the room. Jake thinks Gina probably has a mental map of the worst versus best Wi-Fi spots in the precinct; he’d guess a physical map, but the facts are probably so ingrained in the assistant’s mind, she doesn’t need to write it down.

“I am missing so much practice time because of this,” the guitarist mutters before moving to follow Gina. He’s stopped when a hand encircles his right wrist firmly. Instinct calls for Jaron to wrench his arm away and announce his protest – a muddled memory of shrugging off a whiny, toddler Baldassare comes to mind – but the location dulls that reaction. 

Instead, he merely stops walking, as the hand demands, turning slightly and looking to the hand’s owner. Jaron quirks an eyebrow at Jake in question, his hazel eyes locked to the elder’s dark brown ones. A sarcastic ‘ _Problema_?’ doesn’t make it past his lips. 

Gina rolls her eyes at the awkward silence between the pair, and waves for Boyle to follow her away from them. The detective obliges with only a few questioning glances to the suspect. 

“Handcuffs,” Jake says with only a little bit of a stutter, left hand not releasing the suspect while his right searches through his jacket pockets for the item. 

Jaron looks at the detective quizzically, and holds back an eye-roll. He nods once, turning to brandish his other wrist. “I understand. I’m a criminal mastermind, after all,” he smiles, forgoing throwing in any Italian words in favour of all-out sarcasm Jake can understand. 

“Exactly,” the detective nods back, amusement creeping into his voice as if there’s some inside joke. He secures the handcuffs in what should be a fluid movement that turns out sort of shaky. Caruso retracts his hands almost as soon as the cuffs click shut, and then cracks his neck; one side, then the other. 

The suspect nods to the doorway and gestures with both cuffed hands as if to say, ‘After you.’ Jake complies, but keeps a careful eye – because it’s absolutely just caution that has the detective looking at Caruso – on the suspect as they make their way back to the fourth floor in silence. 

-

**9:01am, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 28 hours, 49 minutes**

Jaron has a very unimpressed look on his face, his arms folded over his chest, leaning back in his chair. Glaring, hazel eyes more lidded than usual, expression caught between a frown and something disinterested. His frown is steadily washing away to boredom as the noise continues. 

Detective Peralta is perched on the interrogation room table, mouth wide and distorted as he shrieks whilst aggressively strumming an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 

Caruso is fighting back amusement, but it’s really not that difficult when the badly-tuned guitar’s mess of notes are assaulting his ears and threatening a headache. He twitches his head in what he hopes is a minute move, mentally cursing not getting a goddamn haircut this week like Lola had told him to. 

Jaron lets his eyes flutter shut, trying to block out the noise. He’s beyond lucky Lola hasn’t found out about his arrest and turned up, yet; he’d left his phone at the apartment, so she simply mustn’t have tried to contact him in the past day. Despite trying to arrange finishing college and taking over a family restaurant, Lola usually still finds the time to over-parent Jaron, just because she’s three years older. _At least someone thought to care-_ he thinks, and then decides he’d rather not.

“Okay, no,” he mutters, eyes opening once more. “Stop!” he speaks up, standing from his chair, back hunched to accommodate for the cuffs. Incessant black locks fall in his eyes once more, vision a little blocked as he glares at the detective. 

Jake stops strumming the guitar immediately, and instead looks a little worried; eyes wide, stance locked. A glance to the handcuffs brings back his confidence. “No,” he says. 

“Give me the guitar, seriously. You’re butchering my eardrums,” the suspect sighs. At Jake’s hesitation, Jaron continues, “C’mon, gimme.” 

The detective remembers his altercation with the pre-schoolers in the park last week, grip tightening on the neck of the guitar. Though, Jake can’t exactly imagine Jaron lifting him from the ground via tomahawk, what with their height difference of about half a foot. 

Jake practically dumps the guitar on and jumps off the table, scoffing. Not thinking about how all of his recent girlfriends have had a fairly similar height difference. Sophia was even shorter, of course, but her penchant for heels made her less so. 

“Cuffs,” Jaron huffs, no hint of a question in his voice. 

“Yep, sure, O short one,” the brunet grins, pulling the key from his pocket and unlocking the handcuffs once more. “It’s really becoming a bit of ridiculous routine,” Jake muses, “this whole on-again-off-again- _dammit_ that’s not what I meant-“ 

The guitarist rubs at his wrists gracefully as the cuffs hit the table; then, the words seem to tick over in his mind. He gaze snaps up from the guitar still on the table to Jake, frown washed away to confused, wide eyes. 

“Of course not,” he says in a low slur. He gives the detective a calculating frown, and then shakes his head, reaching for the guitar. 

“I meant the handcuffs, obviously,” Jake attempts to clarify once more. 

The suspect nods slowly, and quickly picks up the acoustic guitar and spins it to hold against his chest. It vaguely reminds Jake of people holding children they actually like. Jaron begins tuning the guitar; short nails plucking at the strings with a frown. He grimaces at the sound it makes – and the awkward almost-silence. 

“You’re stressed about trying to pin this arson on me, and your _pazzo cagna_ of an girlfriend,” Jaron says, not looking up from the guitar. 

“Ex-girlfriend,” is the weak reply. 

“Good to hear,” is the muttered response and no, _so not reading into that_ Jake tells himself. Silence falls once more, save for the changing notes of the strings as they’re carefully adjusted. “It’s only every other day someone shoves me to the floor in anger,” the guitarist chuckles. 

Jake doesn’t have time to question what the _heck_ that means, even if Jaron _is_ from Jersey, before the door opens. 

“Gina, can’t you see I’m interrogating Caruso,” the detective whines. 

The brunette scoffs; Jake gets the feeling she’d cross her arms if it weren’t for the lunch tray in her hands. “Uh-huh, interrogation slash serenade, son,” she says, “however, I arrive bearing gifts in the form of food for our bilingual friend.” 

Jaron strums the guitar, adjusts one more string, and then carefully places the instrument back on the table. “ _Muoio da fame!_ Thank you so much, Gina,” he smiles. 

She hands over the food with an equally happy expression, and then waves a dismissive hand. “It was all I could find,” she says. ‘It’ consists of off-brand sugary cereal with a scarce amount of milk, two apples, and a coffee, “Want me to punch Scully with a ruler until he tells me where he hid the sugar for coffee?” 

“As much as I would love to see that, I don’t like sugar in coffee,” Jaron laughs, placing the tray on the table. “Feel free to punch Detective Peralta, though, that would greatly aid my mood.” The guitarist smirks at the brunet snidely. 

“If Gina punched me right now I’d probably throw up everywhere, because all I ate for dinner was Charles’ gross homemade goat broth and a piñata milkshake of my own invention.” 

“ _Che schifo_ ,” Jaron scrunches up his nose, recoiling in disgust. Regardless, he takes a seat once more, and nods to Gina. “Thanks, again. Good luck at your dance practice tonight, if I don’t get to talk to you again. I mean, a captain’s assistant must be busy.” 

And yeah, Jake figures that’s a straight-up lie; Jaron _knows_ how much time Gina can afford to waste. Her frequenting the interrogation room yesterday was example enough. _Then again,_ Jake thinks, _maybe this suspect really is that stupid. Or grovelling._

“We’ll talk again. This work can be time-consuming, but it’s manageable for someone of my calibre,” Gina shrugs, adjusting the sleeve of her maroon sweater. “I’ll leave you with Jake, don’t lose your voice shouting too much.” 

With that, the assistant leaves the interrogation room, irrespective of Jake’s glare. Jaron wastes no time digging in, already shovelling cereal into his mouth. He might be eating in a hurry, but some manners still remain; elbows off the table, back straight, mouth closed when chewing. Jake makes a mental note of this, being the amazing detective/genius he is. 

“I hope you choke,” the detective says intelligently as he takes a seat. He runs through a mental list of things that usually make suspects confess, gaze drifting to the table as he crosses his arms. Prolonged imprisonment doesn’t seem to work. Hard evidence also hasn’t worked, totally not because it’s pretty circumstantial…

A sputtering noise breaks Jake’s Amy-like list-masking – even if she would never just make a mental list. The detective looks up to see Jaron crouched forward slightly, violently coughing. _Choking_ , Jake’s mind helpfully supplies. 

“Are you-? Should I-?” the brunet stutters, unfolding his arms as a wave of distress washes over him. His mind scrambles to remember what to do if someone chokes. _Hit them on the back? That sounds about-_

Jaron stops spluttering, however, when he sees Jake’s distress, and instead starts laughing. The laughter is a little hoarse from all the coughing, a little wheezy from the sheer hilarity. 

“I thought you were choking!” Jake frowns, mentally berating himself from being even a little concerned at the suspect’s probable death. 

“ _Magari!_ ,” the guitarist grins, and devolves into another fit of laughter. “But then I wouldn’t be able to confess,” he adds before chuckling once more. 

Jake stands abruptly from his chair, metallic legs scraping on the concrete with a loud screech. “Enjoy your oatmeal,” he says with heavy sarcasm, opening the door. 

“Are you blind?” Jaron asks, spoon pointed at the colourful, candy-like excuse for cereal. 

“I said enjoy!” the detective snaps, marching out the door and slamming it behind him. He pushes up his left sleeve, checking his watch; over three-quarters of an hour left until the line-up. 

Instead of going to his desk, the brunet continues to the break room to consult the vending machine. Jake searches all his pockets to scrounge just enough money for an orange soda, mumbling to himself. 

“Stupid Jaron Caruso, lying about arson. If no one gets hurt it’s like the coolest crime. Next to espionage...” he mutters, and then continues to list his least-hated felonies. 

“Jake! Are you okay? Suspect giving you trouble?” Charles interrupts, suddenly appearing beside the brunet, leaning ‘casually’ against the vending machine. 

“With not confessing, yeah,” Jake mumbles, punching the final buttons and passing through all the coins he found. “Gina found him breakfast. I mean, who needs to eat?” he laughs. 

“You know how important food is to me, Jake. Don’t insult food,” Charles says gravely. 

Jake nods as he retrieves the orange soda gratefully, “’Course. Sorry. It’s just. Scumbags don’t deserve it, y’know – or, at least, Gina spending all that time finding it. I don’t know what I’m saying.” 

Boyle’s ringing phone interrupts what he has to say, and so he gestures ‘one second’ and retrieves the mobile from his pocket. “Hey, Mom,” he begins, and walks out of the break room. 

Jake nods absentmindedly, wandering to the break room table. He slouches as soon as he sits in the chair, cracking open the orange soda can. He runs through the case details in his head, trying to figure out some way to prove who really set that stupid café alight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Italian:  
> Uffa = Ugh  
> Grazie = Thanks  
> Non ero io = Wasn’t me  
> Continua a sognare = Keep dreaming  
> Pazzo cagna = Crazy bitch  
> Muoio da fame = I’m dying from hunger  
> Che schifo = Yuck  
> Magari = I wish/Let’s hope  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	12. Hooray For Hospitals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line-up doesn't go so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the month-long wait for a new chapter! I just got bogged down in other work and lost some of the spark, I suppose. But it's back [hopefully], so thank-you for waiting. (No offense in intended by the title, by the way)

**10:34am, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 27 hours, 16 minutes**

Jaron’s really not impressed about the line-up. Two of the other guys look extremely dodgy, and really, he’s concerned the NYPD have arrested him rather than these other crooks. 

Not that Giovanni Caruso IV is particularly assuming about people’s appearances, being tattooed and almost-pierced and just over five feet tall. It’s more their shifty demeanours and calculating looks than anything else. 

They’ve been ordered around by the police - _Step forward_ , and _Step back_ , and _Roll up your sleeves_. The last one Jaron has no idea about, since the cops freaking _know_ his tattoos; hopefully it means they’re considering the others set the café on fire. 

He saw the first suspect - a middle-aged woman with impeccable taste in business-wear - walk off with Diaz. So, presumably, it’s the second loser that’s forced Jake to ask the suspects to practically press their faces up against the glass. The other three - one of whom Jaron is ninety-percent sure is actually a cop pretending to be a suspect - just gave off strange vibes, and were reluctant and slow to comply. 

Soon enough, however, they’re allowed to go. Well, Jaron supposes it’s back to the interrogation room for him and freedom for the other guys. One is tall and muscular, with a dragon tattoo sleeve on his left arm. The probably-cop reminds Jaron of a baby giraffe, all gangly limbs, albeit with dark hair and an ugly goatee. The final guy in the line-up is probably the oldest; late thirties, cheap black suit and positively greasy hair. Jaron thinks he hates that guy the most. 

Jake greets the guitarist as the four suspects trail out of the line-up room, a somewhat determined glint to his eye. “Ready to confess yet?” he asks quietly, as if it’s some big secret. 

“Ready to die,” the shorter responds, enjoying to freedom from handcuffs. He’s sickened by the thought; as if handcuffs have become so normal in the past day. 

The brunet frowns at Jaron’s words, and opens his mouth to speak, only to close it once more. The detective settles his hands on his hips, turning only his head to watch his colleagues herd the other suspects plus the witness back out to the bullpen. 

“Ready to sit down, too, or lie down or something. Legs are sore,” the younger continues to whine, pouting absentmindedly. His gaze falls to his forearms, nimble hands pushing the sweater sleeves to his elbows, though there’s nothing to cover besides the scattered tattoos. 

Jaron swears he hears a muttered, ‘Cool, cool cool cool,’ and so snaps his head up to the detective before him. His eyes narrow, but not at the brunet - past him, another man stands. Large nose, prominent ears, and deep frown lines despite his age, there’s no mistaking Chris Albert; his high school nemesis. 

“Bert, thought you slinked off to Detroit; you still creeping around Jersey? Witnessed the arson? Wasn’t me,” he’s one provocation away from spitting at Bert, and half a breath from tackling the guy. 

“Mr. Albert? You _know_ -?” Jake begins. 

“My business in Detroit is booming, gutter-punk. Just cruised around Jersey back to see my sick aunt long enough to see you light up that nice café. I liked that place, Caruso,” Bert laughs back, adjusting his wide navy tie. 

“I liked when Stacey Wagenhaus broke your nose, in ninth grade,” Jaron hisses, fists clenching at his sides. 

“You would,” Bert says dumbly, lost to say anything else. 

“Ninth-? What? What’s going on?” Jake once again finds himself a little lost regarding what’s unfolding around him. His raises his hands in a placating gesture, trying to quell the obvious tension.

“Jake? Is the line-up done?” the detective turns to see Terry at the bullpen end of the hallway, file in hand. 

“Why’d you say it was me, Bert? I don’t light anything on fire; I’d sooner set you alight than any stupid café,” Jaron takes a step toward his high school enemy menacingly and sends a well-aimed kick to Bert’s left shin. The witness doubles over, and then stands back up, seemingly fine. 

The guitarist looks to Jake, sure of his actions but unsure of the consequences. But the pain can’t be that bad, because Bert then lunges at Jaron, fist flying to the shorter man’s right temple. The suspect recoils with a snarl, pulling away the hand that flew to cradle his head, and instead drawing it back to send a punch of his own at Bert’s nose. 

Despite excellent aim and an admirable amount of force, the punch doesn’t hit its mark. Jake’s grabbed Jaron’s arm, hauling the suspect’s wrists into handcuffs. He’s thus on the receiving end of some vicious-sounding Italian curses, but no thrashing. Bert smirks at the detective and the detainee, looking victorious despite his probably-going-to-bruise shin. 

Jake nods to Boyle, who stands shell-shocked with the rest of the line-up on the sidelines, and then to Terry, already making his way to the scene. The brunet digs a hand into Jaron’s left shoulder to haul the suspect to the interrogation room. The younger man resists the action, trying to run at Bert once more. The brunet’s right arm extends across Caruso’s collarbone, halting the attack. 

Even though Jaron _really_ wants to strangle Bert, or bite his ear off, or headbutt him - though maybe not that last one because that punch really smarts right now - he complies with the arm across his torso, and turns on his heel. He marches past the detective to his temporary home, trudging to his seat but refusing to actually sit. 

“What the hell happened, Caruso?” Jake asks, somewhere between disbelief and exasperation, taking off the cuffs the suspect once more. 

As much as Jaron wants to yell straight back, he instead raises his right hand to hold the side of his head, wincing at the contact. “Bert’s my schoolyard nemesis. He was jealous, always jealous. Couldn’t ever throw a punch though, ah,” he gasps at the end, losing his perfect posture to hunch forward slightly, face contorted in pain. 

Jake frowns at this as he pockets the handcuffs, sympathy sneaking into his thoughts. “Are you okay?” he asks with a little more anger than usually accompanies the phrase. 

Jaron bites his tongue from the response of, ‘ _Does it look like I’m okay?_ , and instead shakes his head minutely, uttering a pained lie, “Yes.” 

“Wait here, I’ll be back,” the detective says after a millisecond of consideration, hesitating as his hand curls around the door handle, and turns his head back to Caruso expectantly. 

Jaron nods, as if it’s all he can manage, and shakily sits down in the chair. He tips his head back to glare at the ceiling. The brunet takes this as an O.K., and leaves the suspect alone in the room. 

\- 

“Jake? How’d the line-up go?” Gina asks as the detective approaches the captain’s office, not looking up from her phone. 

“Great! Not one of the witnesses identified Caruso as the arsonist, and his Eddie Fung punched him in the head. I’m just going to tell the captain,” Jake says, cracking his neck to the right in annoyance. Gina stands abruptly from her chair, causing Jake to stop walking. 

“Eddie Fung is here?” the assistant asks in confusion. Terry rolls his eyes from his desk; after letting Charles handle Caruso, he’s trudged back to do paperwork.

“No, one of the witnesses is Caruso’s high school nemesis,” Jake explains as if it’s super obvious, and moves to step past Gina. 

“And punched Jaron in the head? Is he okay?” she holds her ground. The detective places his hands on his hips, and huffs in frustration. 

“Yeah, whatever, I’m sure he’s fine, just, y’know in a lot of pain,” Jake smiles, “he’ll be easier to annoy into talking now!” 

Gina shakes her head, distressed, and waves her hands in an ‘X’ frantically. “No, Jake! You can’t just-” 

“He’ll be fine. Idiot’s in a band. Those losers get injured all the time,” Rosa interrupts, dumping a heavy file on Gina’s desk. “Falling off drum rises from jumping around, running into each other, smashing guitars.” 

“Caruso plays in bars with _Virgin Necks_ , not some popular punk-influenced band like he sort of- never mind,” Jake rolls his eyes, and then cuts himself off. “Anyway, I have to just tell the captain, and then we’ll be swoot.” 

Gina eyes the brunet thoughtfully, making her own conclusions from his words. “Good luck with that,” she says, and sits down once more. 

“Jake, you need to fix this mess-up before it’s a complete disaster,” Rosa says lowly, “if your perp goes to hospital, the department could get sued.” 

The brunet high-pitched humming noise, and then steps forward to open the captain’s office door. 

-

“So you mean to tell me that none of the witnesses identified your suspect, but one of them has possibly given him a concussion?” Holt asks, arms folded in front of him as he stands very still behind his desk. 

“Yeah, Charles’s with the witness, stalling, and Caruso’s in the interrogation room. So, should we get Santiago to check him for a concussion? She said she-” Jake says, nervously tapping one foot. 

“Detective Santiago has taken several first aid courses, but she is not a qualified medical professional. You’ll take a patrol officer officer, accompany your suspect to the nearest hospital, and hope he doesn’t file a lawsuit against us,” the captain interrupts, eyes narrowing behind his glasses and arms dropping to his sides. 

Jake takes a step back, frowning even more. “But, I have to investigate this, I can’t just be at the hospital. Can’t we just ice him? Caruso’ll be fine,” he argues. 

“The rest of the squad is perfectly capable of fixing your mistake. And no one is getting, ‘iced’, as you so eloquently put it,” Holt says with an air of finality, an unspoken ‘dismissed’ hanging in the air. The detective huffs in annoyance once more, and then walks away with a slight, petulant stomp, almost tripping over the trash can by the door. He storms through the bullpen, rounds the corner to the hallway with the interrogation room, and attempts to kick open the door. After discovering doors don’t open from light kicks when they’re clicked close, Jake turns the handle. 

Jaron’s expression is almost bored, it’s the ‘almost’ that’s the problem - despite his right elbow leaning on the table and chin resting on his hand, pain laces his features. His closed eyes flutter open, gaze going from neutral to angry as soon as he spots Jake. 

“Hey, hospital, time to go,” the detective snaps, pointing to Caruso and then to the door. 

“What?” Jaron growls, “I don’t need a hospital. You know how expensive those things are? I play in a band, how much money do you think I make?” 

Jake shrugs. “Your dad owns like four restaurants,” he scoffs. 

“I’m surprised you remember. But, I see absolutely none of that money; I worked in a place called Short Stack whilst being five-foot-four. You’ve seen the shithole I live in, too. I sleep on a bedroll, not a bed,” Jaron starts off angry and ends up self-pitying. 

“Five-foot-four?” Jake repeats in surprise, “Wow, you probably couldn’t even get up on a drum rise.” 

The suspect goes from scowling to glaring to confused. He opens his mouth the speak again, lifting his head from his hand, but then recoils. “Peralta,” he snaps, slamming a palm on the table, looking around the room is a dizzy manner. 

“What? It’s time to go-” Jake begins, but cuts himself off when Caruso promptly closes his eyes and slumps off of the chair and onto the floor, unconscious. “To the hospital. Oops.” 

\- 

Maybe it’s not the best image for Jake to be dragging an unconscious suspect into the bullpen, but it’s really the only idea he has and the quickest way to get help. 

“Hey,” Jake draws out the word as he pulls Jaron along the linoleum with both hands hooked under the guitarist’s shoulders. Gina jumps up from her seat, stashing her phone in her pocket and running over, while Terry worriedly approaches. 

“ _What_ is going on?” the sergeant asks, throwing both hands in the air. 

“Funny story, Sarge, could you actually help me carry this unconscious but probably alive body to your car? I still haven’t bought one,” Jake continues to smile, but he’s very nearly sweating from the effort of still holding up the unconscious suspect. 

“Just go, Terry,” Gina says in a placating manner, and continues before she can be interrupted, “this ray of musical sunshine needs a hospital, but an ambulance ride is like five hundred bucks. Just drive the poor baby and Jake and me to Brooklyn Methodist, please.” 

“You? Why do you need to go?” Terry asks incredulously. 

“Terry,” the assistant continues to look at him intensely, “you are in the presence of royalty-”

“Just because someone has ‘the fourth’ as part of their name doesn’t make them royalty,” the sergeant sighs. 

“I meant me, but yeah him too. Anyway, I’m the only one who’s spent any time investigating this suspect by getting to know him. Also, if we’re going to charge this guy, he needs to be alive. Terry, hospital, now!” Gina claps her hands continuously until Terry relents, going to Jake and taking the suspect, throwing Jaron over his shoulder. 

“Peralta, Gina, Caruso, parking lot,” he says, nodding to each of the people in turn, and then the elevator door. They all begin to walk - well, except for Jaron - toward the elevator, ignoring stares from other people on the floor. “And let’s hope he doesn’t wake up before we get there.” 

Jake opens the gate for Terry, who frankly looked ready to just kick the gate off of its hinges. “Why? Wouldn’t that be medically worse?” the detective asks, surprising even himself at saying something that kind of sounds smart. 

“Yeah, but the little dude’s got a lot of rage, especially towards you. I don’t think you could hold you own against him, Jake,” the sergeant shrugs, walking ahead and pressing the elevator door button. 

“I could so,” the detective argues, “I’m a trained police detective who takes down perps left and right,” he gestures enthusiastically, “Caruso got punched in the head, and Lisa pushed him over yesterday.” 

“Are you really blaming Jaron,” Gina crosses her arms, “for not anticipating your weirdo ex-girlfriend’s psychopathic tendency, and, oh wait, his hands were cuffed behind his back at the time?” 

“Stop calling him that. He’s ‘the perp’, or ‘the suspect’, or ‘Caruso’,” Jake huffs, stepping into the elevator the second the doors open. He punches in the button for the car-park level, and so the elevator begins to move downward at a snail’s pace. After a minute or two of silence, the elevator finally reaches the dark, damp parking lot. Gina and Terry step off, but Jake hesitates. He presses the button for the second floor. 

“Why aren’t you coming?” Terry asks, adjusting the body over his shoulder a little. 

“Gotta take a patrol officer with me, captain’s orders,” Jake explains, holding the button to keep the door open. 

“You planned taking this dope to the hospital with the captain?” Terry asks in confusion. 

“No, Holt suggested I should take _Caruso_ \- take note Gina, but good job Sarge - to the hospital because someone can’t take a punch. Trip tagline!” the detective laughs. 

“No trip tagline,” Terry huffs, “whatever. I’ll put Caruso in my car, and you better be back soon.” 

Jake grins, releasing the door button and thus sending the elevator back on its upward journey. Soon enough, he’s back at the floor they previously passed, doors opening with a creak. The people waiting for the elevator frown at the unmoving detective. Jake makes no move to step onto the second floor. He figures since it’s pretty much a floor full of patrol cops and newbies, he’s okay to just call out. “Hey! _Attenzione_ , friends. Anyone seen Deetmore?” he yells, asking for the only patrol cop he can remember the name of, since Rosa embarrassed him last year.. 

The goose-bodied officer is standing behind the floor’s check-in desk, and leans over it a little to ignore the civilian talking to him and instead look at the elevator. He quirks an eyebrow, frowning at the detective. 

Jake simply beckons with his index finger at Deetmore, “C’mere, time to go to the hospital,” he calls. The patrol officer continues to frown, but walks toward the elevator regardless. The rest of the newbies look on confusedly, but don’t comment on it. Jake presses the button for the parking lot once more.

Deetmore walks onto the elevator, and doesn’t speak until the doors ding shut once more. “Detective Peralta? What’s going on?” he asks as he stands beside the other cop, “You aren’t going to beat me up, are you?” he continues, tone pleading. 

“Nope. Someone can’t take a punch, so you, me, Sergeant Jeffords and Gina Linetti are taking the suspect to hospital,” Jake says with a smile, tapping one foot impatiently. 

“Oh,” Deetmore nods his assent, looking to the cheap flooring. “Why- um - why do we have to take the suspect to hospital? Why are you taking me? Is the suspect okay? What’s the case?” 

The detective blinks rapidly, but doesn’t lose his smile. “That’s a lot of questions,” he mutters. 

“Yeah,” Deetmore says guiltily, “Captain Holt said if I want to make detective, I have to be more perceptive. Then he told me I should’ve perceived it was a hilarious joke, and should’ve laughed accordingly.” He shrugs, and adjusts the sleeves of his dark-navy uniform shirt. 

“You want to be a detective? Never mind. Holt asked me to take a patrol officer to the hospital with me, and you’re the only one I know of by name, and the suspect is fine, and totally committed arson,” Jake says in a rush, breathing hard afterward. The elevator reaches the car park, and both cops step out. 

Thankfully, just beyond the concrete pylons is Terry’s maroon minivan, with the sergeant driving and Gina in shotgun. 

Deetmore turns to Jake in confusion. “I thought you said there was a suspect?” the patrol officer asks Jake, and then turns to Terry, “Please tell me you didn’t put an unconscious arsonist in the trunk.” 

“Course not, he’s strapped into the middle seat in the back. You’re damn lucky I haven’t put the new baby’s seat in yet, or else Caruso would be in the trunk,” Terry explains, hitting the steering wheel slightly in frustration, “now, stop whining, and get in the minivan.” 

Jake rushes forward, opening the sliding door and scrambling into the car. He has to squeeze past the dual seats occupied by Cagney and Lacey’s booster chairs, and then squish into the seat on Caruso’s right. The suspect is still unconscious, and the seatbelt seems to be the only thing holding him up. Jaron is devoid of cliche glasses, which Jake guesses is fine since it’s not like they’re trying to pretend the guy’s awake. 

On the ride to the hospital, Jake doesn’t really appreciate the unconscious game of Car Corners the suspect is playing. It’s a bit of a blur besides that; arriving at the hospital, hauling out Caruso for Terry to carry, the hospital staff sighing when they see Jake and panicking when they see an unconscious body. 

Soon enough, Jaron has been swept away for tests, including a CAT scan. The nurse that Jake caught to ask about the suspect’s condition said the fainting was due mainly to dizziness from the hit and dehydration. Caruso woke up soon after, as he was being wheeled to the private room his expensive health insurance ensures, but the nurse says Jake and Deetmore have to wait outside for a little. Terry and Gina are somewhere in the hospital café, with the sergeant probably trying to stop Gina from stealing the good food. Jake and Deetmore are sitting outside the crisp, blue-walled room, with the detective staving off the other’s attempts at chatter, and ignoring the small whines and groans of pain from Caruso on the other side of the door.

The CAT scan comes back clear, and before Jake can get a word in, Caruso is given hardcore painkillers for his headache, and goes out cold. 

The detective doesn’t really know why a small part of his heart clenches each time he glances to Jaron - to make sure the guy hasn’t escaped, of course. Guilt seems to be the most likely reason for the feeling, but it’s not Jake’s fault the suspect has a high-school enemy that punched Caruso in the head. _At least he’s sleeping soundly now,_ Jake thinks, observing the peaceful-looking younger man through the glass panel in the door. He looks different, devoid of earrings, and not scowling, though still worse off than when he was first arrested. There’s bruising on his head from the altercation with Lisa, and the butterfly closures have been replaced with small stitches. 

After realising how long he’s been observing, the detective looks away from the hospital room once more; because he just wants to make it clear Detective Right-All-The-Time doesn’t need more than a minute to evaluate situations. He tries to focus on a newly-repaired patch of drywall across the hall, rather than justify his actions in his mind. He runs through motives for most property-damage-related crimes in his head, trying to figure one out for Caruso, or someone else. 

**2:09pm, Brooklyn Methodist Hospital**

**Deadline: 23 hours, 31 minutes**

A blissful half-hour passes after the pain meds are administered without Deetmore feeling the need to talk about his oh-so-interesting patrols, or how he thinks he’s close to getting promoted. The redheaded nurse from before, Aggie, strolls over to the cops. Deetmore practically jumps from his seat, while Jake rises a little more slowly. Deetmore got to go home last night, while the detective has been trying to crack this arson case for hours on end. 

“I’ve just come to check on Mr. Caruso, and tell him his next of kin just arrived, and will be up here any minute,” Aggie explains, forcing a smile for the police before moving past Jake to open the door. The detective nods to Deetmore, indicating for the patrol officer to follow, and goes with Aggie into the hospital room. 

The nurse checks the pulse oximeter, and leans close to inspect the suture-closed head wound. Seemingly satisfied, Aggie steps back, pausing to pull up the thin hospital-issue blanket over Jaron’s cotton hospital gown. 

The guitarist stirs at this, expression going from neutral and relaxed to a pained frown as his eyes flutter open. He wriggles his legs, and sighs, looking to the nurse expectantly. 

“Good afternoon Mr. Caruso,” Aggie beams, brushing off the left shoulder of her pink scrubs, “you CAT scan was clear, so no permanent damage. Your doctor will be back in an hour or so to give a final check, or sooner if you want to be discharged. It’s not advised, considering your concussion, but may be possible. Also, your next of kin is here - although we do notify next of kin on admittance, we also inform of your condition, and since it wasn’t urgent…”

Deetmore is standing in the open doorway, arms crossed and rocking onto his toes and back to his heels. Jake ignores him, and instead crowds as close to the suspect’s bedside as Aggie will allow. 

“Lola’s here?” Caruso mutters, glancing at Peralta and Deetmore before settling on a less-fiery gaze for Aggie. 

The nurse frowns, “We called your father, and he said he was very busy, and so called someone else. Driver’s license confirms the relation,” she explains, and then practically flutters out of the room, Deetmore stepping aside and then stepping back. Jake wonders why Aggie doesn’t solely work in the paediatric department of the hospital, considering her cheerful air. 

Caruso doesn’t watch her go, and instead looks to the cops, raising a suture-edged eyebrow. “Care to explain?” he snaps. 

“We took you to hospital, since the captain said so. And like _I_ said so, you’re fine,” Peralta shrugs. 

Jaron seems intent on just scowling at the police, even as he eases himself up on his elbows to sit up slightly. The short glare-fest ends when a passerby outside the room catches the suspect’s attention, causing Jake to turn while Caruso mutters in Italian. 

A man seems to be sauntering by, but after checking the number of the room and peering through the glass, stops at the door. A smirk paints his angular face that’s somewhat familiar to Jake, but not that much. The young man in a charcoal-grey, herringbone suit is clean shaven and has his coffee-brown hair slicked back in a precise wave. He’s handsome, though perhaps in a more juvenile way than Jaron is. The connection clicks too late for Jake.

The man wanders into the room, smirk increasing in mirth when Deetmore practically leaps out of his way. The smirk lessens when the man’s gaze turns concerned as it rakes over Jaron’s obviously injured form. The man recovers quickly, clearing his throat as he tugs at the lapels of his expensive suit jacket. 

“I’m sorry, officers, you must have the wrong room,” he says in a tone so smooth and lazy it’s more of an elegant drawl, smirk returning, “Come on, Gian, it’s time to go.” 

Jaron falls back onto the cheap mattress and shakes his head. “I’m concussed, I’m not going anywhere. And besides, they don’t have the wrong room,” he says, and then glances to Jake. “Detective, Officer, meet _mio caro fratello minore_ , Baldassare Caruso.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Italian:  
> Attenzione = attention  
> Mio caro fratello minore = my dear younger brother  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	13. Moments (Or Lack Thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the case, finally.

**2:10pm, Brooklyn Methodist Hospital**

**Deadline: 23 hours, 30 minutes**

Baldassare loses the practised businessman's smile, expression turning very unimpressed. He doesn’t spare a glance to the cops and instead narrows his green eyes at his brother, “What do you mean, ‘they don’t have the wrong room’?” 

Jaron goes to answer, face set to a frown and tone ready to be _beyond_ sarcastic because seriously, Baldassare, why _would_ there be cops in a hospital room? The guitarist doesn’t get the chance. 

“Jaron set Café 184 on fire,” Peralta supplies. 

The elder Caruso rolls his eyes. He’s surprised at the relief that Baldassare being here has brought. He’s glad it’s not his parents, or - God forbid - Lola, considering they’d all kill him for getting arrested. Papà would get angry and rant about the family’s reputation. Mamma would be concerned, but still very mad. Lola would berate him and explain how he should listen to her more often. 

Baldassare - the only part of the Caruso family present, thankfully- pointedly narrows his eyes at Jake. 

The detective doesn’t react. 

“ _Gian_ did not set a building on fire,” Baldassare says, “let alone some doomed coffee establishment.”

Jaron would try to correct his brother on the name if it would do any good. _Maybe he’s not as bad as I remember_ , the guitarist ponders, glad to have someone else stick up for him for once. 

“Didn’t you ask for a lawyer? You should’ve called me, I’ve got friends who’d be eager to help. Why do they-?” Baldassare pauses, taking a step toward the bed and then turning to face both the cops at once. “Why do you think he committed arson?” 

“Witnesses place Mr Caruso at the scene of the crime,” says the officer whose badge proclaims him to be named Deetmore. 

Jaron scowls at the cop’s words, and looks up at his brother when the businessman looks to him, “Bert, from high school, claimed he saw me.” 

“The lowlife,” Baldassare practically growls. Jaron smiles at the insult, glad to be supported. His brother regains his composure to a less severe tone of voice, “That man and his whole family should stay _nei bassifondi di Jersey_ and leave us alone. You know his shows up at the SoHo restaurant sometimes just to annoy Papà? And Mamma’s flower shop, even. Though, you know how it is with family, people target one, they target them all.” 

Jaron always forgets about his mother being a florist, considering he doesn't need anything from her small Queens-based business. The restaurants, however, are a frequent favourite of his. _Another successful Caruso,_ Jaron thinks, _and here I am, in hospital with a bunch of cops._

“And everything hurts,” he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He might have only been punched in the head (twice) and fallen to the floor, but the returning pain clouds his assessment of the rest of his body. 

“What?” Jake asks, seemingly snapping out of a reverie. 

“What?” Jaron parrots, hazel eyes going wide in surprise and freezing at the realisation that he accidentally voiced his pain. He blames the painkillers themselves, even though the aches indicate they might’ve worn off. The concussion remains a valid excuse, of course. 

Baldassare sighs, and points to his brother, “ _Zitto. Senza lamentarsi_.” Jaron scowls at being told to shut up and feigns complete offence. 

“ _Pensavo tu amassi mi_ ,” he says with a fake sob, hand over his heart. 

The younger gives Jaron a dubious look, one eyebrow raised. The elder Caruso grins back. 

“ _Basta_ ,” Baldassare says as he adjusts the sleeves of his jacket dismissively. 

“ _Guastafeste_ ,” Jaron says with an exaggerated pout. 

“Look, we have evidence that the suspect was at the scene of the crime that night,” Deetmore interrupts weakly, gesturing to said suspect, “this is a police investigation. So, as soon as the suspect is cleared and signed out, we’ll be taking him back to the precinct.” 

“How? There’s no motive, even if you do believe Bert,” Baldassare says. “You’re _mettere il carro davanti ai buoi_. Putting the wagon before the oxen.”

“What?” Peralta asks with a frown. 

“Putting the cart before the horse,” Jaron whispers as he leans closer to his younger brother, trying to subtly help him explain. 

“Putting the cart before the horse,” Baldassare repeats pointedly. 

Jake nods along, something seeming to shift over in his brain like clockwork. “Enough lolly-gargling. Deetmore, you stay here, I’m leaving,” he announces in a bland tone, with an underlying sliver of something akin to a ‘eureka’ moment. 

“Where are you going?” Jaron snaps, anger returning at the prospect of being abandoned without released. “Does this mean I’m not under arrest anymore?” 

“Nope,” the detective replies hastily, “just in case.” He seems eager to leave Brooklyn Methodist, despite not having any mannerisms that give him away.

The guitarist doesn't blame Jake. Jaron has no particular aversion to hospitals; he's not scared of the damn things, for goodness’ sake. Still, he doesn't enjoy the harsh lighting, or the whines of the ill in the corridors. He’s thus extremely grateful for the private room, and not sharing with actual sick people. 

“Well, bye, then, Detective Peralta, see you when you feel like returning,” the patient says mock-airily, waving a hand. 

Jake nods in acknowledgement, and then decides that's not quite enough. He waves back before walking briskly out the door and off down the hallway, scuffed sneakers neglecting to squeak, even on the cheap laminate flooring. 

Deetmore looks distraught and confused at this, which causes Jaron to smirk at the beat cop. 

“Why am I stuck babysitting?” he strides to the door, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he leans to the hall. “Peralta?”

Jaron doesn't appreciate the wording. “Hey,” he barks at the officer, ignoring the disapproving glare Baldassare is giving him. 

When Deetmore turns to face the hospital bed, he doesn't release his grip on the timber doorframe, and instead practically white-knuckles the structure, visibly gulping.

“You want to call monitoring a suspect in not-your-investigation babysitting again and see what happens?” Jaron asks, raising an eyebrow. He winces at the spark of pain that follows, remembering the injury as the stitches above the edge of his right temple protest the movement. His words of a threat are empty, of course; he's not about to leap off the bed and take a swing at a cop, for a vast array of reasons. Mainly, he doesn't punch people without solid motive. 

“I'll bab- keep watch, um, outside,” Deetmore says hurriedly with an expression of forced determination. Or maybe it's supposed to be authority. Jaron can't quite tell. The cop edges out of the room, pulling the door closed and taking a seat on the chair from just outside, tufty brown hair still visible through the indoor window. 

Jaron falls back onto the thin pillow with a sigh, breathing a little more easily now that the pain medication seems to have kicked in again. A more familiar pain settles behind his lower ribs; the dull, aching request for food. 

“Hey, _paesano_?” he asks. 

“ _Cos'è_?” is the easy reply. 

“I want to leave soon, too, and you’re right about me not committing arson, _giuro_ -”

“I believe you,” Baldassare nods. 

“So could you possibly maybe please get me real food? I won’t be here long enough to get hospital meals, and I haven’t had much since the arrest,” the guitarist says, putting on the best puppy-dog eyes he can manage, expression just shy of pouting lips. 

The younger sighs, and swipes wearily at his cheek with the back of his hand. “Sure. Gnocchi sound good?” 

“Sounds amazing,” Jaron says contentedly, “thank you.” 

“Yes, well, you are lucky you’ve got me here, since I’m so nice,” Baldassare laughs, expensive leather shoe twitching in an aborted attempt at a step to the door. After giving his brother a smile, Baldassare walks over to the door, stopping only as his fingers curl around the handle. 

“ _Vai e pavoneggiarsi._ Wait,” Jaron calls, “could you not tell Lola, please?” 

“Sure thing,” Baldassare says, and then sweeps out of the room, door clicking shut behind him. The businessman strides off, instantly taking out his phone as he goes out of sight. The suspect smiles, turning to fully lie on his back and calmly drift back asleep since he knows it’ll be an hour before his brother returns, at best. 

The slightly pained nap occurs almost right away. 

**2:53pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 22 hours, 47 minutes**

Thanks to having to drag Gina away from wanting to stay at the hospital with Caruso and navigating Brooklyn traffic, Jake makes it to the precinct in bad time. Gina was convinced to leave when she was informed that Deetmore would also be at Jaron’s room, attempting to talk her to death. 

At the precinct, waiting on the fourth floor and holding the very file Jake is after, is an unwelcome guest. 

“Hey, thanks, Fire Marshall Boone, I was just looking for that and then I’m gonna go solve cases, rather than bumble through already-fought fires,” Jake says smoothly as he reaches the fire marshall, prepared to snatch the file. Terry gives the detective a wary look while Gina subtly observes the impending argument from her desk. 

“Peralta, I hear you’ve been investigating an arson without consulting the fire department,” Boone says, waving his arm to move the file out of Jake’s reach. The fire marshall wears his usual white shirt, black tie, and black trousers, along with a fireman’s jacket. 

The younger rolls his eyes at the rotund man’s stubbornness. “Yeah, since you’d just give all the wrong information, like what burned the best, blah, blah. Besides, it would have helped if you included in the file the type of bottle used for the Molotov.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter, because you seem to have arrested a suspect on a whim,” Boone shrugs, “I want to speak to him.” 

Jake sighs. “Whatever, I don’t care. The suspect is at Brooklyn Methodist with a concussion, don’t ask. I have a crime to solve, Boone, c’mon,” he says, gesturing to the file tiredly. 

“Fine,” Boone concedes with a frown, handing over the papers. “But I still want to talk to the suspect. Send him here straight away.” 

“Whatever,” Jake concedes, waving a dismissive hand at the fire marshall. “Gina?” the detective calls across the bullpen. 

“On it,” she nods, picking up the phone at her desk, nails clacking on the numbers. 

“Let’s go, Charles,” Jake announces, marching straight back out of the precinct, file in hand and best friend trailing faithfully. 

**4:16pm, 99th Precinct**

**Deadline: 21 hours, 24 minutes**

The holding cell, Jaron discovers, is just as boring as the interrogation room. He’s feeling much better though, being given another round of pain meds, fresh clothes and a hearty pasta his brother picked up. Baldassare has had to run off after his fiancée, Kaylani, called about wedding planning. Jaron muses that perhaps it’s not Baldassare that’s annoying, and rather the bride-to-be. 

The accused hose-monkey (Gina’s words, and she claims she’s quoting Jake) has made no appearance to interrogate Jaron yet, but he doesn’t doubt he’ll be dragged back to the one-way mirror room soon enough. 

His nose has started running, causing him to swipe at the drip with the sleeve of his new hoodie. The sweater itself is the colour of charcoal, decorated on the front with two wide chevrons pointing upwards. The arrows are a silver tone, and are made up of cartoon bullets rather than simple lines. 

“ _Perfetto per una stazione di polizia, ben fatto,_ ” Jaron mutters in annoyance, scratching at the rose tattoo on the back of his left hand. It’s not exactly the best outfit - bullets and all - to wear while attempting to prove himself not guilty to the police. 

Neither are tattoos, he supposes, but probably less so. He’s not sure what to make of Jake’s lingering glances to his tattoos - can’t decide whether it’s fuelled by criminal-profiling or interest. Jaron’s lips quirk up in a smirking ghost of a smile at the thought of the latter. 

Speaking of the devil (thinking of the arresting officer), Peralta’s triumphant tone permeates the thrum of conversation. 

“Fire Marshall Boone, this is Michael Ellsworth,” the detective proclaims, causing Jaron to stand from the cold bench to peer out into the bullpen, “pissed-off ex-boyfriend of the café owners’ daughter who stole a very expensive bottle of rum from the current boyfriend’s family restaurant, and Molotov’ed it into the café.” 

Jaron’s spirits lift at the words - a new suspect. He can go home. He lifts his hands to the navy-painted security screen separating him from the scene, and observes. 

In the bullpen, amidst the other cops, civilians, and skeezy-looking lawyers, the man Jaron assumes to be the Fire Marshall is just rising from his chair by Jake’s desk. Peralta has just swept past the gate, half-dragging a platinum-blond man by handcuffs, as well as another detective following along. 

“Boom, Boone,” Boyle adds, “it was a six-hundred-dollar bottle of Finnish ‘Loistava rum’, to be precise. Amazing; delightful mouthfeel. Such a waste, really-” 

“Charles. Crime. Beating the fire department,” Jake reminds his friend, smile unrelenting. 

“She’s marrying him! And not me! She deserves-” blondie interrupts, shuffling his feet and mildly trying to get away. 

“So I’ve been waiting here an hour and a half for you to hand over your original suspect, and you’ve gone and arrested someone else?” the stout man asks, annoyed. Blondie looks offended at the interruption. 

Jaron frowns lightly, and curls his lip to give an attention-calling whistle, short and sharp. Sure enough, heads turn, including those targeted (several people also cover their ears, but that’s just collateral). The guitarist’s fingers curl a little tighter around the vertical grate, grounding him. 

“Original suspect here, and by the way, I think I got the worse end of the deal. I’ve been here for almost twenty-six hours straight, save for the hospital visit,” he says, voice raised to reach Boone. Jaron understands his appearance might seem a little dire; sleep deprived, hair messy and violence-inspired hoodie. In the wake of the past day, he finds he doesn’t care. 

Jake looks almost sympathetic, victorious fire dampened by the remembrance of these facts. Jaron offers a small smile. Any semblance of a ‘moment’, however, is ruined by Boone.

“Okay, but I want to talk to this new suspect,” he says to Jake, waving a hand at the blond. Jaron’s smile falls. 

**7:18pm, Baldassare (and Kaylani)’s Apartment, Hoboken**

“I really appreciate this, Kaylani,” Jaron says as he enters his brother’s apartment, trailing the taller Caruso, hands gripping the straps of his backpack like a schoolchild. He can see the beautiful fiancée in question seated at the kitchen table, clacking away at her laptop with fake nails. 

She glances up, dark brown eyes narrowing behind her sleek glasses. “Baldassare told me you’re a little worse for wear,” she shrugs, “we have a spare room. Besides, you’re family, Giovanni.” 

Jaron nods appreciatively. Kaylani, like her fiancé, refuses to call the guitarist by his preferred nickname. He’s learned not to mind that much, considering he knows them extremely well. His brother, at least; Kaylani, marginally. 

Jaron nods instead of actually responding, since he doesn’t consider her family; not yet, anyway. Baldassare walks over to Kaylani, glancing over the papers next to her computer. 

“Negligence? Ouch,” he says. Jaron chooses this moment to wander off to the spare room - he’s been here once before only, but it’s a small enough apartment that he remembers where it is. 

“On the left,” Kaylani calls, command redundant since the guitarist is already heading that way. The apartment itself is quaint yet stylish, with sleek grey walls and individualistic furniture. The hallway is devoid of anything at all besides the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom, probably due to the narrow space. The spare room’s door is open, so Jaron simply trails in and sheds his backpack to place at the tail-end of the beige-timber-framed double bed. He rifles through the rucksack, pulling out the makeshift pyjamas he packed; grey sweatpants and one of the attempts at a band t-shirt Lillian had tried to make a few months ago. Not for sale, being handmade and having no one to sell them to, more like a bored Sunday afternoon’s work. It’s white, and has ‘Virgin Necks’ painted on in straight-lined capital letters, one word under the other, ends of ‘V’, both ‘N’s and the ‘K’. Jaron likes it well enough, despite disapproving of the band name in general. 

After grabbing out the pyjamas and fresh underwear, he walks out of the room to hover by the bathroom door. 

“ _Ehi, paesano!_ ” he calls out, “ _Posso fare un doccia?_ ” 

“ _Sì, va bene_ ,” Baldassare yells back dismissively. Jaron adheres to being given permission, and juggles his clothes to hold between his left forearm and his chest, right hand curling around the doorknob to twist it open. He nudges the door inward and open with a shoulder, steps in, and closes it with a foot. 

He drops his pyjamas on the vanity, and opens the shower cubicle door to turn the water on in hopes of it growing hot soon. Sheds his current clothes gratefully, calloused fingers hesitating over the two tattoos in the crook of his right elbow. A gemstone-studded dagger points from his elbow to his wrist, extending only two inches or so. An old syringe faces the other direction, from the crook toward his shoulder, roughly the same size. Above that lies a rope-framed, classic frigate in a light storm. Jaron’s fond of that last one.

Once water vapour begins to billow from the shower, the guitarist is reminded of the _shower_ , of course, and so flips the extractor fan on and climbs in. As he begins to relax and wash – thieving Baldassare’s expensive body wash – his mind drifts back to earlier in the day. The detective, Jake, had been surprised when Jaron left without much of a fuss. Not filing for wrongful arrest, despite clearly having a good case for it, for one. Rather subdued compared to the initial arrest, also. Jaron blames it on the over-the-counter pain medication he stocked up on on the way over here. 

As he washes his slightly-too-long hair, hot water beating at his sore back, the guitarist manages to clear his mind via thinking of music. After over a full day of stress, Jaron finally relaxes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian:  
> nei bassifondi di Jersey = in the slums of Jersey  
> Zitto = Shut up  
> Senza lamentarsi = Stop complaining  
> Pensavo tu amassi mi = I thought you loved me  
> Basta = Stop  
> Guastafeste = Spoilsport  
> Che palle = That sucks  
> Hey, paesano = Hey, friend  
> Cos'è? = What?  
> Vai e pavoneggiarsi = Go and strut (or some such)  
> Perfetto per una stazione di polizia, ben fatto = Perfect for a police station, good job  
> Ehi, paesano! = Hey, friend  
> Posso fare un doccia? = Can I take a shower  
> Sì, va bene = Yes, all right  
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :) (why tf did I include so many ughh)
> 
> Apologies for lateness, and mistakes.
> 
> P.S., though the end of the arson case, this is most certainly not the end of this fic, fear not.


	14. Shallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on and wallowing, in equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I was originally going to add more to this chapter, but decided it would make more sense split up. More soon after this, hopefully. I finally got around to seeing season three, but I hate to say not much of it is going to be in this. Nothing majorly spoilery, anywho.

**4:56pm, Wednesday**

**_Jukebox_ bar, Newark**

By some star-studded (or star-spangled, if one is feeling particularly American) miracle, time continues to pass for Jaron as if he were never arrested. It’s a calm afternoon as Jaron bustles into the bar known as Jukebox and narrowly avoids hitting his shell-case-enclosed acoustic on the metallic doorframe. It survived the one-hour two-train trip over here, despite a hippie’s half-hearted attempt to snatch it at the Chambers Street station. All Jaron had to do was pull the case closer and gnash his teeth at the would-be thief; the hippie recoiled with comically wide eyes behind those round shades before he scampered off. 

Jukebox itself is a small establishment, with a small foyer and coatroom leading to the main room; a purple-lit bar to the left, blue-lit tables to the right, and red-lit area at the back for the performing musician/s of the time. Of course, the lighting isn’t exactly just the one colour, more of a tinge to regular, white lights. 

There’s an actual, vintage jukebox embedded into the part of the timber bar top closest to the entry, currently being perused by a young couple. About a dozen other people are in the bar, milling around the bar or seated at the tables. 

Jaron continues through – not trusting the coatroom with his camouflage jacket, and not really wanting to pay (and tip) them for it. Someone is already playing, a sweet Korean-American woman Jaron’s talked to a few times before, but doesn’t always play before him, though she’s probably due to leave in the next half hour. 

Looking around at the patronage, Jaron knows he’s not this bar’s usual fare. He’s not covered in tattoos, by any means, but the crown on his neck will be visible as soon as he takes off the jacket, and then the dagger, syringe and half a cobweb if he rolls up his sleeves. The rose, in all its cream-pink-red glory, is of course already seen. He still hasn’t gotten that damn haircut, either. 

When the proprietor took Jaron on three months ago, he was surprised and ecstatic. After four months of playing with Virgin Necks and three years of open mic nights, he really needed the change. 

Now, come November, the chill has settled in, but so has Jaron. He even recognises one or two patrons, who visit every other Wednesday. He smiles at them politely, but continues to the far end of the bar, regardless. Jukebox’s management people (the goddamn angels) provide the setup for their singers and/or guitarists, with two active speakers and a mid-range monitor board, plus all the necessary cables. Jaron’s gaze sweeps over the equipment before he turns his back on the singer to rest his guitar case to lean on the bar. Thankfully, this one isn’t too high, so he can actually reach. 

One of the bartenders, a young, albeit burly, black man, sidles over. “Evening, Caruso,” he smiles, hands on the bar-top, “can I get you anything?” 

“I would love a blackberry soda, Alec,” Jaron answers easily with only a quick glance to the bartender’s name tag, “and a glass of water.” 

Alec nods easily and wanders off to make the drink and prepare the water. Jaron takes a second to tune in to the live music. He’s pleasantly rewarded; Mina is playing an original song, chords a hesitant thrum and voice leaving a little to be desired. There’s a reason she’s not the evening performer, after all, but Jaron thinks she’s getting better. 

By the time Jaron gets his drink – not a priority for Alec, considering Jaron gets free drinks on Wednesdays – Mina has finished the song, moving on to quietly promote the bar’s specialty drinks. The red-tinged lights above her seem less colourful than Jaron remembers; he figures she might’ve asked for it to be toned down. Soon enough, she’ll be finished the last of her set, and Jaron will be due to set up his own act. 

“Thanks,” he says to Alec, accepting the respective dark purple and clear drinks with a gracious smile. The bartender nods wordlessly and then walks off to serve some newcomers. 

He’s startled by a presence to his right, and his hand immediately finds the guitar case, fingers curling around the covered neck protectively. The grip softens when he recognises the face before him. 

“Good, you’re here. Mina has two songs left, so if you could warm up your voice, I’ll take this,” the music manager, a stout black woman in her forties, nods to the case, “and you can set up when she’s done. Good?” 

“Good,” Jaron confirms with little expression, releasing the guitar entirely. The manager nods back before picking up the case gracefully and walking off. He picks up the soda, sipping at it mildly, turning to watch as Mina starts her second-last song. A cover of some Drake song Jaron can’t quite name – always interesting to hear a genre shift, but it’s common enough at those open mic nights he sometimes goes to, just to listen. 

**6:02pm**

Just over an hour after arriving, Jaron has warmed up his voice (thankfully the restrooms at Jukebox are fairly soundproof), tuned his guitar and set everything up, ready to play. He bids goodbye to Mina, who says she’d like to stay, but has homework for college to do. Caruso nods knowingly, eyes not bothering to follow her retreating form. 

“Good evening, everyone who’s listening,” he says softly into the microphone, posture straight, “at Jukebox, I’m ‘California Lies’, but I swear I have a real name, too.” He plays several quiet notes, just to check it’s all still in-tune. 

Jaron has caught the attention of most of the forty-something people slowly filling up Jukebox, including a scandalised-looking couple who stand from their seats and walk straight out. Jaron remembers that with his jacket off and navy shirt’s long sleeves pushed up, his tattoos are very much on display under the red lights. He chuckles lightly and continues. He doesn’t think much of people who judge him for that, anyway. 

“Please tell me if I’m too loud. My band did get a little bit in trouble last week with the police,” the guitarist says sheepishly, and instantly he notices a few more people paying attention, “amps too loud, upset the residents above, since it was a basement bar. Long story short, don’t run from the police, or you might trip and fall.” He waves to the few stitches and sparse bruises nearby with his right hand while his left cradles the neck of the guitar. 

Laughter sounds, particularly from the young women who’ve taken the recently vacated seats closest to Jaron. He smiles back at them before continuing. 

“Yeah, I didn’t get very far,” he chuckles, before blinking pointedly under the red lights, reasserting his fingers on the fret-board. “Anyway. This song is called Don’t Look Back In Anger, by Oasis,” he finishes, thinking he’ll save the Jukebox promotion stuff for later. The notes begin with practised ease, careful but natural. 

**Thursday**

**6:54pm, _Vibes_ bar, Brooklyn**

Jake has decided to stay with Gina, for the time being. She’s not one to constantly go to bars, especially if she can’t bring anyone home because there’s a man-child sleeping on her couch, but Jake’s feeling down after visiting Lisa; said blonde was not happy, Tuesday night, when Jake had shown up. Which, to be fair, is an understatement for her reaction. 

-

The detective had knocked at the apartment door, in spite of having a key, and was answered in pretty good time. Looking back, Jake thinks that if perhaps Kelly had been on the other side of the door, he could’ve had a civil discussion with his (ex-)girlfriend. Unfortunately, Lisa opened the door.

Her pretty eyes narrowed angrily, and before Jake could get a word in, she’d picked up a large cardboard box sitting by the doorway, shoved it at the detective, and slammed the door once more. 

“Um, Lisa, I was hoping we could talk-” he’d started, regardless. ‘Like responsible adults,’ was the rest of the sentence, but Lisa got in the way.

“No! You’re a cheater, Jake Peralta, and I don’t ever want to see you again!” she screeched back. He bristled at the time and winced at the memory. She’s wrong, he knows; his father was, is, a cheater, but Jake would _never_.

“But, my name is also on the rental agreement,” Jake said sadly. Hadn’t they been in-love (or at the very least said so) a few days before? Jake guesses not. His only answer was a harpy-like screech, which had sent him running back down the stairs - not trusting the elevator in case she came running after him. 

-

Now, Jake isn’t one to drown his sorrows in alcohol, but he thinks a night with friends can do wonders. Charles, Gina, and Rosa have all met up at Vibes, despite the incident last week. Jake knows they could continue bar-hunting, but maintains Vibes deserves a good chance. It’s really a great establishment; not packed, due to the time, good prices, and moderately volume-d tunes. There’s no live music until seven here, but there’s still a sound guy present to tweak the running playlist and volume, et cetera. If Jake had even glanced at the stage less than ten yards away in the past quarter hour, he’d have noticed said sound guy setting up for the musical act of the night. But alas, he’s nursing his second beer instead, humming to the new pop hit playing. 

Gina is sipping away at an orange cocktail, trying to steer the conversation from Charles’ new flame - some artsy chick with a thing for takoyaki - and back to the most interesting topic, according to Gina. Well, second-most interesting, after herself. 

“I can’t wait until seven o’clock,” she says, “Virgin Necks are going to be playing again, and trust me, it’ll be amazing. Even if they’re three fifths useless, the other two make up for it.” 

“Why would a ‘three fifths useless’ band be amazing?” Charles asks with a frown. 

“Because they are. Jaron Caruso is a goddamn saint,” Gina presses, pausing to sip from her drink, “and any girl who can make pink hair work _has_ to be good.” 

“That guy just spent his whole time in custody being a goofball,” Rosa says, and then reconsiders, “though, he did tell Jake to fuck off in Italian. Gold.” A trademark thinking-about-gratuitous-violence-or-similar smile reaches her face. It matches her lightly blood-stained leather jacket, maroon jeans, and heavy boots. 

Jake looks up from staring into his beer to join the conversation, hand splayed on the granite bar-top. “I shouldn’t have arrested him. That was so dumb. I can’t believe he’s not filing for wrongful arrest,” he says. 

“My friendship Jaron Caruso has been solidified, Jake. You can thank me, now,” Gina says matter-of-factly, waving one of the bartenders over for another drink. 

“Some other time,” he waves a hand right back at the brunette. 

“You befriended him just so we wouldn’t get sued?” Charles asks incredulously. 

Gina frowns at this, and picks up her soda effortlessly, “Of course not. Have you seen the bond between Jaron and me? It’s B.F.F.’s at first sight, Charles, god,” she huffs, taking a drink. She’s dressed up, for going out to a bar; teal heels, black half-sleeved dress, and a matching teal knock-off designer clutch. Gina is the only one who changed clothes between work and the bar, with the three cops just hiding their badges a little better than usual. 

Jake shrugs inwardly when Gina doesn’t mention anything more than friends; maybe she has secretly finally met her soulmate at an underground dance competition. 

“I’d be glad if I never saw Caruso again,” Jake grumbles, earning a quizzical look from Gina and a severe frown from Rosa. Charles takes the opportunity to steal the conversation once more. 

“Takoyaki is very difficult to home-cook, too. I’m think of asking Genevieve to have dinner at mine, takoyaki, so I can show her my cooking skills. It’s bound to impress her. What do you think, Jakey?” he says, looking to his best friend with a hopeful smile. 

Jake kind of tuned out and goes to reply when a voice interrupts. 

“Hello, everybody, we are, Virgin Necks” Caruso says confidently into the microphone, pausing briefly but frequently. 

Jake almost falls off of his chair as he turns to double-check. Sure enough, there is the once-suspect, perched on the low stage with a red guitar slung over his shoulder. Three girls are onstage, including the pink-haired one from Maria’s Tavern at the drum kit. A wolf whistle sounds, presumably for the three girls.

“I hate the name, but for that, we can all, blame, the bassist. The new one,” Jaron finishes. He flicks at a few strings on his guitar, and then nods. “Sorry, nerves. Anyway, this song is a cover, you probably don’t know it, called Come Together, s’by the Beatles. Two, three, four…” 

The pink-haired drummer begins, as does the paid-out bassist - who doesn’t look very impressed at all. Caruso doesn’t have much to do, being the rhythm guitarist at the beginning of such a song, until he begins to sing. 

“ _Here come old flattop, he come groovin' up slowly, he got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller, he got hair down to his knee. Got to be a joker he just do what he please, sh_ ,” Jaron slurs his way along, hissing at the end of the line, holding the microphone loosely. 

Charles resumes talking. “So, Jake?” he prompts. 

Jake tears his gaze away from Caruso to turn back to Charles. “Pardon?” 

“Takoyaki. Genevieve? She runs an art gallery,” Charles looks into the distance and sighs, “she has three dogs, too.” 

Charles proceeds to spend the rest of the song talking about Genevieve - his new girlfriend - listing a bunch of random foods they agree are amazing. Jake nods through it, continuing to sip away at his beer. Rosa mimes gagging at one point while Gina ignores Boyle in favour of watching the band. 

“She’s amazing,” Charles sighs happily as the song ends, bringing an elbow up to the bar-top to lean his chin on his hand. 

Music begins, a little quieter than before - the resident sound technician is taking that police visit seriously, apparently - guitar and drums and okay, Jake’s no music expert. He’s into cool rap songs and Taylor Swift’s music, but he still recognises this next song as well. 

The next hour passes in much the same way; light drinking, chatting, and vaguely listening to the music. The band is just now coming back from a quarter-hour break, looking more energetic than before. While Rosa discusses just how cool the Ducati Monster 821 is, Jake lets his attention wander to the band. He refuses to think about Lisa and instead wallows in the music. 

“ _Well I woke up tonight, I said I’m gonna make somebody love me,_ ” Jaron begins his drawl once more. Really, it actually sounds in tune, and has a crispness to it Jake enjoys. The detective downs the rest of his beer, raises a finger at the bartender to ask for another, happily drowning in the jokingly suggestive music. 

It’s a good night. Jake is among his friends, enjoying one of the few past-times they all have in common, just content with each others’ company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, oops.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. When Pig(-Coloured Milkshake)s Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selfie sticks, in this instance, are truly _the worst_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the 5000+ word count makes up for the ridiculous wait between chapters (a little bit?). Seriously, I'm very sorry it's taken this long to update.
> 
> I know I’ve grown slack with story - I guess I’ve just been feeling sort of bummed about writing it, to the point where I don't really enjoy the show as much when it focuses on Jake and Amy. I’m sorry, I’ve never really shipped Peraltiago, which didn’t make season 3 as enjoyable for me as I hoped. (Ah well. This is what I get for being a heretic.) I keep thinking when I watch episodes (after season 2) how they would be if I incorporated them into this fic (stupid brain) and it's distracting, blah blah blah.

**7:28am, Friday**

**Jaron’s apartment, Brooklyn**

Jaron wakes early to the drumming of raindrops against his windows. One hazel eye cracks open, while a stray hand wanders in search of his smartphone. He unplugs it from the charger, and throws the cord back in the direction of the socket. His bedroom is small, space taken up by the cupboard, chest of drawers, and the roll-up futon he’s on right now. Eggshell-coloured walls contrast the dark timber of the furniture, the stark black of his blockout curtains. 

A glance to the time on the phone informs Jaron it’s just early enough to wake up, considering he doesn’t have a job at the pancake place anymore. He groans in frustration, still a little too tired to be happy with waking up before eight. 

The sense of calm he feels from soaking in the sounds of rain is ruined when his phone starts ringing. 

‘Clara’, the screen proclaims. Jaron scowls at this before answering. 

“Hello?” he says, sitting up on the futon, shoving the sheet and blanket off of himself. He half-expects hair to fall in his eyes, but alas, he got it cut yesterday. Restrained is a better word than cut, really, because it’s not all that different, just short enough to no longer obscure his line of vision, or tickle his neck.

“ _Get your ass down here, Caruso. Today’s shift manager is Paulo and he is **raging** because you’re not here yet._ ” 

“Clara, it might’ve escaped your notice, but I got _fired_ from Short Stack Café, for _chucking_ a plate of pancakes at a _customer_ ,” Jaron says, rubbing at his tired eyes with his free hand. He chuckles, “I’m pretty sure it’s on YouTube by now.” 

“ _It is, I’ve seen it, it was hilarious. This girl was vlogging and then in the background there’s just you losing your shit at this dude- anyway, no, that’s the point. People showed up askin’ about you, every day since you got the sack. Paulo and Marie want you back,_ ” Clara gushes, “ _I don’t care if you’ve gotta run, Caruso, but if you want your job back, get here, A-sap_.” 

“Seriously? Thanks, Clara, I’ll be there - give me half an hour-” Jaron says, getting up off of the futon and rushing to his cupboard, yanking out the uniform he hadn’t sold yet. 

“ _Make it ten minutes, because that’s what I told Paulo when he asked_ ,” Clara says, and the guitarist can hear the smile in her voice. 

“Clara! That’s actually _not possible_. We live in a city with no rush hour, just a rush day.” 

“ _See ya_ ,” is the cheery reply, followed by silence. 

Jaron’s not sure how exactly Short Stack Café think they can swing this, un-firing someone because a couple of bored hipsters want to see violence in action. Regardless, it’s worth a shot. Jaron dresses in the first pair of jeans he grabs from the floor, then yanks the (ugly) uniform t-shirt and apron from their coathangers in the closet. 

The shirt is white with cartoon pancakes of all sorts - from blueberries to chocolate chips to what looks like a cactus - and is just thin enough to see the outlines of Jaron’s tattoos. He pockets his phone and scrunches up the apron. Rushes to brush his teeth, throws on off-brand sneakers, grabs his jacket and keys, and races out the door (after locking it). 

The guitarist almost falls down the stairs in his sprint for the garage, almost drops the maroon apron while shuffling on his neon-green motorcycle jacket. 

The second the bike starts up though, Jaron is focused, in his element, whatever, as he pushes off the ground and races out of the gloomy garage and onto Brooklyn’s streets. It’s practical for Jaron to have a motorcycle, or so he tells himself; it’s not amazing, the little blue-painted dirt-bike-like bike he owns. Old as it may be, it’s lasted him through college and the few years since then. 

The ride should take close to half an hour, with the traffic. Jaron makes it to the Manhattan bridge easily enough, but it’s close to gridlock getting from Bowery to East Houston to Lafayette, Lafayette Street to 4th Avenue to Park Avenue, and then finally the corner of Park and East 28th. 

Now, if someone were to ask Jaron if he does such an illegal, dangerous practice as lane-splitting, he’d say no. For the most part, that’s true. It’s kinda true this morning; he only rides between cars at traffic lights, at a slower speed. He changes lanes and swerves around cars as fast as legally possible, and no, it’s not an emergency, so he still uses some sense and care. 

After he stops in front of Short Stack Café and parks out back, Jaron checks the time on his phone; a quarter to eight.. He thinks that must be some kind of record, or else an insane stroke of luck. 

He opens his jacket, swaps it for the apron he’d stuffed into a pocket, dumps his helmet and runs inside the café. They open at seven, so the kitchen is already busy; Jaron’s pretty sure the string of his apron almost catches fire as he does it up, dodging the staff. 

The guitarist is about to run through to the front bar-like counter, literally in the doorway, when someone catches the back of his t-shirt. 

“About time, Caruso.” 

Jaron whirls around to face Paulo and forces a grin, “Thank you so much, sir, I’m so grateful-” 

“Good. Don’t do anything to get yourself fired again; no smashing plates, no ruining orders, no food fights,” the manager says. He’s an intimidating man, over six feet tall and apparently really into crossfit. Hazel eyes meet dead-inside brown; Jaron loses the smile at the older man’s lour. 

“Absolutely,” the younger man nods. 

“Now, get out there. It’s you and Clara this morning on the floor until eight. Your shift goes till half past one. Normal pay rate, paid next Friday for the coming week. I’ll give you your schedule when you finish this shift,” Paulo says, and walks off before Jaron can reply. 

“Thanks,” he calls anyway, waving unnecessarily. All of sudden, a sharp pain rings out across the side of the guitarist’s head. He swerves around to catch the offending object - a small clipboard - while someone snickers in the background. 

The first customers of the day are indeed usually jerks, but it doesn’t quite make sense until Jaron’s scanning of the restaurant stumbles across a grinning Japanese-American woman.

“Get to work, Caruso,” Clara laughs, kitten heels clicking against the floorboards. 

“ _Fai il tuo lavoro,_ ” the guitarist chimes back. Being a breakfast café in Midtown, they’re going to be packed very soon. Jaron hopes a weekday shift means none of those supposed video viewers looking for him to throw pancakes at someone else. That’s not going to happen. Probably. 

\- 

**10:28am**

**99th Precinct, Brooklyn**

The Photograph Pole Dilemma of ’15 begins, for the Nine-Nine, with a most horrifying sight steps off the elevator. 

A couple every good detective can immediately decipher to be tourists wander to the floor’s desk officer, the woman with broken selfie stick in hand. 

It’s a slow process Jake watches in silence; the desk officer nods, uses some wild hand gestures, gives a sympathetic pout, and then directs them towards Terry. The couple are fairly normal people, just extremely cheesy tourists in bright clothes, a tall man with his doe-eyed girlfriend. 

Terry looks up from reviewing Peralta’s near-illegible paperwork on one of last week’s cases - some dead-end B and E that resulted in some door-knocking and not much else, with no suspects and no leads. The sergeant receives the couple with a thoughtful gaze and reassuring tone. Jake’s not really listening too much, rather focused on watching a video of how to make rainbow cereal bars, until he catches his name. 

“...Detective Peralta is one of the best we have,” Terry says and waves a hand, pointing the tourists toward Jake. The couple thank Terry and approach said detective’s desk

Jake plasters on a smile and clicks out of the video.. “How can I help?” he asks, standing up from his ~~glue-free~~ rolly chair. 

“We were taking a selfie outside the Brooklyn Public Library, and then this kid came up with bolt cutters and snapped it, and ran off! He smashed my phone screen,” the woman explains, holding up the smartphone for emphasis. It is indeed cracked to hell despite the protective case. 

Jake frowns at this, and nods. “Okay, well, I’ll get a statement from both of you, and then Detective Diaz here will find a sketch artist for you,” he gestures to Rosa, sitting across the desks. She glares back.

After taking statements and passing the tourists off on Rosa, Jake stalks over to the sergeant, glad to be free from such a thing as selfie-stick violence. 

“What was that for? That’s a beat-cop case, Sarge,” he whines. 

Terry raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You think you’d be getting all the ‘cool’ ones, after what you pulled the other week?” 

“Considering I’m the coolest detective ever, yeah,” Jake shrugs. 

“Captain Holt asked me to make sure you get all the cases like this, and I agree with him. You don’t go arresting people because they glued your chair to the floor,” Terry says, hands in the air in exasperation. 

“Even if they also attach an air horn to said chair?” the detective tries. 

“And take a punch from your crazy girlfriend?” Terry lowers his hands. 

Jake frowns and snaps his fingers in a ‘dammit’ arc. “Ex-girlfriend,” he says pointedly, intending to angrily storm off to Gina’s desk. It doesn’t work all that well when it’s less than ten feet away. 

The assistant is wearing a yellow blouse with orange, pointy stars scattered across it, crossed legs adorned with sleek navy trousers. New nails click intermittently against the screen of her smartphone. 

“Hey, Jake,” she greets, without looking up. 

“Hey,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and nudging the side of the furniture with a sneaker. 

“You get another sucky case?” 

“Yep.” 

“Wanna hang out instead?” Gina asks, clicking her phone to sleep and setting it on the desk. One hand still hovers of it protectively. 

“We’re at work, Gina. There’s work to do. There’s always work,” Jake argues, though he knows it’s weak. “I mean, the criminals have been really lazy lately. Step up your game!” he hollers to the holding cell, earning funny looks from at least five people. 

“Lunch?” Gina says, and it’s only laced with a little bit of pity. 

“Lunch.” Because it’s not brunch. No way.

\- 

**11:07am**

**Short Stack Café**

“Huh, this place seems kind of familiar,” Jake says happily, while the bell above the door chimes. 

Gina leads the way into the café, all open brick walls and cloth-upholstered booths. Her bright shirt fits right in with the vases of canary-yellow carnations spotted along the walls in battered sconces. 

“Strange,” Jake whispers, incredulous. “So, this is a pancake restaurant?” 

He and Gina walk further into the café, wandering for a member of the waitstaff to point out a table. There’s no music, but that’s fine - there’s enough chatter to quell any silence, but not enough to cover the snort at Jake’s remark. 

“What gave you that idea?” the snorter asks. Jake, elegant as usual, trips over his own feet and nearly fall to the floor. Gina keeps one hand clamped on his shoulder to prevent such a situation. 

She lets go when she sees who it is. “Jaron, good to see you,” she steps forward to hug the waiter, shaking him slightly with each word for emphasis. They’re the same height, now that Gina is wearing sneakers as opposed to moderate heels. He sees why someone might’ve made the joke that got Jaron fired from that - from _this_ place. It takes a second to tick over in Jake’s brain; this is the ~~pizza~~ pancake place Jaron said he worked at, and he and Gina are instant-BFFLs, or something.

“ _Buongiorno_ ,” Jaron laughs when Gina backs away. His smile surprisingly doesn’t falter when he sees Jake. 

The detective ignores the small rush of unknown feeling that accompanies the thought. “Hey, Jaron. Jaron, hey. Hey. Jaron,” he says. 

Nailed it. He’d hit himself in the face if it was socially acceptable, because really, talking to one of your arch nemeses should _not_ be this strange.

“If you’re gonna be a weirdo, go back to calling me Caruso. Please,” the guitarist says, extending his right hand to Jake. He’s wearing what Jake guesses (hopes) is the café uniform, a pancake-decorated shirt and plain jeans with a brown apron over the top, and no, Jake is most certainly not looking at Jaron’s tattoos under said shirt, kinda wishing he could see them again. 

The brunet shakes hands gratefully, noting the clipboard occupying Jaron’s other arm. “Weren’t- aren’t - I thought you got, y’know, fired,” he says. 

“Fired, rehired. You here to eat? Booth or table?” Jaron asks, teeth briefly catching his bottom lip nervously. 

“Table,” Gina says, saving the detective from more gibberish. 

“Sweet, there’s one by the window, just this way,” the waiter smiles. 

“ _Sweet_ ,” Jake mutters, trailing along and dodging a table of vloggers filming giddily, “who says that anymore?”

The table still has crockery and cutlery on it, scrunched up napkins and empty glasses, causing Jaron to moan in annoyance. “One sec,” he mumbles, “you guys take a seat and I’ll clear the table in a minute.” 

Gina sits down with a flourish in the far chair, crossing her legs. Jake sits across from her, thoroughly confused. He’d really thought ‘lunch’ meant some street meat from a vendor near the precinct, not a half-hour subway ride to Midtown to visit someone he’s ~~seen shirtless~~

“You look confused, Jake, when you should be _enthused_ ,” Gina says, swiping through the content of an app on her phone. 

“What’s the difference?” the detective asks. So what if he’s not a fine literature fan - or a literature fan at all. Because really, what’s the point of spending weeks reading a book when the movie only goes for two hours? 

Gina shakes her head sadly, almost as if she knows what he’s thinking. 

“Also, how did you know that Caruso was here?” he says. 

“He texted me,” Gina says, nonchalant. 

“Of course you guys text, I’m so stupid,” Jake says sarcastically. He shouldn’t be so annoyed by this, he knows; the café is nice, with its moderate crowd and great-smelling pancakes, and visually admirable waitstaff. Well, he’s only seen Jaron and a cute woman with a bow in her inky black hair wearing the cartoon pancake shirts, so it’s not a fully-informed opinion, but one Jake regrets all the same. Really, Jaron is - well, not an actual criminal, but in a once-arrested band that had one real criminal, so, close enough. 

Close enough to disregard, to evict from his mind. 

To be glad when Jaron returns with a cloth for the mess, tray for the tableware, and a smile for Gina. And Jake, Jake gets a clipboard menu and it’s alright, albeit horribly cliché. 

“I recommend the blueberry ones, or chocolate chip. The banana gets a little, eh,” the waiter explains, stacking the plates on the tray, “ _carbonizzato_ , burned.” 

“And what’s this mysterious special?” Gina asks, aqua nail trailing over a spot on the paper while Jaron wipes the table down, lithe forearms and corresponding tattoos in full view. There’s not much on his arms; a bar of music on the inside of his right wrist, the needle and dagger higher up, and half a ship on his right bicep. The left arm, occupied with holding the tray, is barer, with only a spiderweb at the elbow. 

“Um, some kind of diabetes rainbow cereal,” the guitarist shrugs, moving to wipe the table down. 

“Rainbow cereal?” Jake asks excitedly. 

The assistant sighs. “Right, so Jake’ll have that, and I’ll have blueberry, and we’ll both get some water. Please,” she says. 

Jaron nods and throws the cloth on the tray before producing a notepad from the apron’s front pocket. “Sure thing,” he says, placing the tray back on the table to write the order down. 

Jake belatedly notices the almost-criminal’s hair is shorter, no longer obscuring hazel eyes or covering pinned ears, which are surprisingly devoid of earrings. Which he should’ve known, really, because he arrested the guy for almost the whole forty-eight hours, but ah well. 

“Ugh, how are you not cold, Jaron?” Gina says, exaggerating a shiver despite the cardigan she’d donned before leaving the precinct. 

“Time to start busting out the cowl necks, huh? It’s not cold running around in here, honestly. It’s just me and Clara serving, so it’s a lot of fast-walking around for us, since the new girl bailed,” Jaron ends his ramble with a shrug. “I could ask ’em to turn up the heating?”

“That would be amazing,” Gina smiles, “just a little bit, though.” 

“Don’t want to ruin the hair,” the server nods knowingly. “I’ll go give them your order, turn up the thermostat, dodge the selfie sticks, and be back soon. Or someone else will.” He glances at Jake with an expression the detective can’t quite place, before dashing off to the café kitchen. Jake admires the melting crown tattoo no longer obstructed by locks of dark hair.

“Jake, do you want to know why I brought us here?” Gina says, reining his attention back in. 

“Yeah, actually. Did you know about the pancakes with cereal?” Jake says and adjusts the sleeves of his jacket, eyes a mix of discerning and impressed. 

“To visit my eighth-best friend, and also to kindle a friendship between said-eighth and you. That’s why. I don’t know why you hate him so much,” Gina shrugs, but it’s got to be a lie; she’s one of the smartest people Jake knows, so she must know why. 

“Eighth? That’s fast,” the detective evades answering. 

Gina hums, checking her phone. 

“He glued my chair to the floor, and then put an air horn on it. And the whole ‘arrest’ thing made me look like an idiot,” Jake grouches, crossing his arms, “if it weren’t for the rainbow cereal pancakes, I’d be so outta here.” 

“Don’t forget, you guys almost had a fight at Maria’s Tavern. Which would have been _hilarious_ , just so you know. He may be in a band with a sucky name that’s only two-fifths useful musicians, and it’s not my sorta music anywho, but that’s not the point. I’m a hundred percent sure he can’t dance, and dance is my life, but our spirits,” Gina says, making a vague hand motion, like a lazy wave, “are alike.” 

“I’ve never seen you run from police, or try to punch a witness, yet,” Jake says, affronted. “And I’m still judging whether he’s secretly a criminal, or a law-abiding citizen.” 

“Verdict?” 

“Almost-criminal. Probably jaywalks.” 

Gina gives him an incredulous look, shaking her head. “You need a reality check, Jake. One, I was mostly kidding, and two, stop pretending to hate Jaron. He’s got a little heart of gold, somewhere.” 

“ _Che cazzo?!_ ” little-heart-of-gold cries indignantly, causing heads to whip in his direction. One of the vloggers looks a little guilty, selfie stick in hand, while Jaron stands next to the table there. He’s covered in a pink milkshake and salad, from head to apron, dripping onto his sneakers. 

“Watch where you’re going, bro,” the selfie-stick vlogger says, shrugging narrow shoulders in his seat. His buddies go mysteriously silent, one of them moving to stand. 

“Are you _kidding me_?” Jaron says shrilly, “ _Il tuo dannata_ selfie stick hit me and this milkshake brained itself all over my face from the tray, and you say, ‘watch where you’re going, bah-row’?” 

The offending vlogger shrugs once more, removing his phone from the selfie stick and, in the process, hitting Jaron on the side of the head with the handle. The waiter snaps and drops the serving tray to snatch the selfie stick to exact revenge upon it. He holds it at either end and raises a knee to break it over, thin metal parts snapping away easily. 

Jake, anticipating the violence, is already out of his chair and making his way over, Gina following close behind. 

“You can’t do that! I’m calling the police,” the selfie stick vlogger barks, snatching the pieces from Jaron’s hands. 

The server scoffs, though the impression of superiority is lost somewhere with the drips of milkshake. 

“Right here,” Jake announces, tapping the badge hanging from his neck, annoyed he has to look up to confront the guy because of his immense height. 

“You know this guy?” vlogger dude says angrily, gesturing to the milkshake-sodden waiter. 

“Sure. A friend of a friend,” Jake says, and it may come off a little awkward, but it’s better than when he was speaking to Jaron before, so there. 

“I maintain it’s mortal enemies,” Jaron says, deadpan. The detective frowns, considering whoa, he was actually kinda gunning for not-quite enemies, but then, he did kinda arrest Jaron for more than a day- 

The guitarist notices Jake’s confusion, and so gives a half-smile and a wink and despite the candy-pink, sugary milk-and-ice-cream Jaron is sodden with, Jake’s heartbeat goes a little nuts, he can feel it, and seriously _get a grip, Jake_ , he thinks. 

Gina clears the strange moment by also clearing her throat. “You gonna apologise or get out, T-rex arms?” she snaps. 

“I-” the guy stammers, looking to his friends for help. One of the girls shakes her head vigorously, while another guy shrugs. “I know a guy in the FDNY,” the first guy says. 

“You can’t call the fire department because I snapped the narcissistic bullshit stick you hit me with,” Jaron rolls his eyes, which only really causes a drop of milkshake to fall from an eyelash to the white of his right eye. He turns away to swipe at it with the edge of his hand, swearing under his breath. 

“What is going on out here?” a voice booms as best it can, though he sounds like years of smoking has put a strain on volume. Jaron cringes, shoulders hunching and trying to blink through the milkshake. “Caruso? What’d you do this time?” 

“It wasn’t me, Paulo, it was this _pazzo_ -” Jaron yells back, waving a hand at the offending vlogger. 

Jake feels lost, doesn’t know how to diffuse the situation, or even try. There’s too much going on; they’re in the middle of a café, the once-suspect is acting _weird_ , Gina has weird motivations, this vlogger dude needs to stop, and Paulo has that ‘I’m so going to fire somebody’ look Jake recognises from every manager ever at the places he worked as a teenager. 

“No-no-no wait,” the detective tries, hands raised in defense. It doesn’t help. 

“You’re fired. For good,” Paulo points and Jaron, uncaring, and dammit, Jake can see it in the milkshake man’s hazel eyes when that tiny heart of gold breaks, just a little. Jaron’s face screws up slightly in a way that looks painful, lips pouting and eyebrows knitting together. 

“Fine. I’m going home,” the guitarist announces, pulling the apron off from around his neck and throwing it to the melted-ice-cream-slippery floor. He turns to stomp out of the back of the café, but hesitates. “I’ll text you, Gina,” he says before leaving. Another server walks out of the kitchen, confused by the scene, but doesn’t follow. 

Gina Linetti is having no such nonsense, stalking after Jaron, dragging Jake by the wrist. The detective almost (almost) slips over on a stray piece of lettuce, but narrowly avoids such a disaster _and_ sends a glare to the main vlogger as the vlog-group attempt to shuffle out of Short Stack Café. Go Jake. 

Gina ignores the about-to-protest kitchen staff, following the trail of pink liquid and gross vegetable leaves with purpose. Jake sends them apologetic smiles, free hand holding up his badge, as if that’s an excuse for barging through a restaurant. Well, in normal circumstances- 

The alley behind the café is wide and clean, cars parked against the side of the adjacent building and a couple of dumpsters smelling like they were ready to be taken away a week ago. The trail of metaphorical breadcrumbs ends at a beat-up blue motorcycle that looks ready for the scrap heap. 

Jaron is doing up the strap on his full-face helmet, only his eyes and slim nose visible, with the visor up. 

“Jaron, are you okay? Do you need a ride? I brought my car,” Gina calls, finally releasing Jake's wrist. The guitarist looks down from where he was gazing into the middle distance, tugging the helmet strap in place. He shakes his head as the duo approach.

”We really ought to be getting back to the precinct, we can just get a bagel or something on the way back, Gina,” Jake argues quietly, distressed. They shouldn’t have driven half an hour to get lunch, he shouldn’t have agreed to let Gina choose the place for lunch because fate is _always_ against it; the Chocolate Incident of ’09 is a prominent example for that.

The assistant ignores him. "I don't have much to do at work, anyway," she continues. 

Jaron shakes his head again, voice muffled through the helmet, "I really just want to get home. I said I'll text you." It couldn’t be more obvious he’s only talking to Gina, considering he’s barely glanced at Jake since storming out of Short Stack Café.

"See? He's fine. Let's go," Jake says, matter-of-factly. 

"I'll take the rest of the day off, really. The cops can do their own paperwork," Gina offers. Jaron gives a weak chuckle at her words. 

"You've still got some lettuce," Jake mumbles, stepping forward to brush some offending salad off of the shorter man's jeans. Jaron, not surprisingly, doesn't appreciate this friend of a friend (mortal enemy) touching his thigh. When Jake backs off - lettuce disposed of to the grimy cement - he looks up to find Jaron glaring.

“You’re bad luck. Stay away from me," Caruso backs away, swatting at where Jake's hand was. "I've really gotta go.” 

“Me stay away from you?” the detective asks incredulously. 

Jaron’s eyes go wide as he nods, and when he speaks, his tone solidifies the implication of ‘duh’. “Who showed up at my workplace, again?” 

“That was me,” Gina says sheepishly. 

“You winked at me,” Jake says, tone accusatory, because really, if Jaron hates him, then he shouldn’t have-

“There was milkshake _in my eye_ , I didn’t wink at you. You know, that hospital trip cost me a thousand dollars I don’t have, I am this close from getting kicked out of my band, and literally _just_ got fired from my only actual job, again. It feels like you’re trying to sabotage my life, or something,” Jaron says, ending his rant with a huff. He takes a set of keys out of his jacket pocket - a neon green leather-like jacket that Jake hopes doesn’t stain too easily, or it’ll look like a toxic mistake thanks to the milkshake. 

“That’s probably just fate, the sabotage, and you getting fired wasn’t my fault,” Jake protests, though it doesn’t lift up his heart from where it sank when the once-waiter mentioned the money. “Hospitals are whack-” 

“Jake, shut _up_ ,” Gina shushes the detective as Jaron kicks at the bike’s stand, holding onto the handle closest. 

Jake feels guilty, and can feel it reflected in his expression, but mutters no apology while Jaron climbs on the motorcycle and starts up the engine. The near-dead machine causes a racket, drowning out the sounds of the city traffic nearby.

“I thought maybe you were cooler than you seemed, considering your Gina’s friend, but your chance at a second impression is gone,” the ex-waiter shouts over the noise of the bike, right hand fakes fluttering away before settling on the handle. “I said it at Maria’s Tavern, I’m saying it again now. Leave me alone, Peralta; drop dead, for all I care. _Spero di vederti presto_ , Gina,” he says, snapping the tinted visor down and kicking off the concrete to speed off. The racket of the engine fades off into the rest of the mantra of beeping horns and rumbling cars. 

Gina frowns, annoyed. “You need to stop being so weird around him,” she says, nodding in the direction of the street and walking off immediately. 

“Not a problem, considering I’ll never see Caruso again, if I get a choice,” Jake throws up his hands dramatically, but follows regardless. A piece of gum hinders his shoe from moving at one point, so he hops aggressively onto the pavement. Passersby barely give him an eyeroll at the staggering. 

“I don’t think you can do any more bar-hunting without quitting your job,” Gina shrugs. 

“We just won’t go there on Thursdays, problem fixed.” 

“Or Saturdays?” 

“Exactly. We’ll just have house parties instead,” Jake says triumphantly. 

“Uh-uh,” Gina begins, turning a street corner, “you are not offering up my palace, Amy’s apartment is super awkward and probably heritage-listed, Rosa doesn’t let anyone over, Terry has kids, Boyle lives underground, and Holt’s place is over an hour away at peak hour. There ain’t nowhere to have a house party, gurl.” 

Jake jogs to catch up to the assistant just as they approach the subway entrance, disappointed. He’s considering an alternative place to hang out when a ringing in his pocket distracts him. “Yup?” he answers his cellphone once it’s excavated, like the professional officer of the law he is. 

“ _You’d better get back to the precinct, Peralta. There’s half a dozen people in here with clipped selfie sticks, all from nearby_ ,” Terry says. 

“Selfie stick clipper on the loose, got it,” Jake replies dismissively, hanging up. “This day just keeps getting better and better.” 

“I think karma has finally found you, kiddo,” Gina laughs. 

“I always thought if cosmic justice was unleashed upon me, it’d be like Groundhog Day, so I could solve like a hundred crimes in a single day,” the detective ponders as the duo reach the bottom of the stairs to the station. 

“Just focus on this Photo Pole Dilemma first, m’kay?” the brunette pats Jake’s arm condescendingly, effectively ending the conversation with the approach of the turnstiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Almost entirely unedited because I'm avoiding a chemistry research essay due in three days to do this. 
> 
> No hate against selfie sticks! (Well, a bit of hate)
> 
> Sorry if this chapter was a bit all over the place, it was written very sporadically. I've never worked in a cafe or police precinct, so it's a lot of guesswork as to the goings-on of such places. I've never ridden a motorbike by myself but I figure being a passenger is close enough (don't lane-split if it's illegal where you live, by the way, I totally don't condone illegal behaviour, mostly). I don't hate vloggers, they're just means to an end in this chapter.
> 
> Italian:  
> Fai il tuo lavoro. ~ Do your job.  
> Buongiorno ~ Good morning  
> carbonizzato ~ charred  
> Che cazzo?! ~ The fuck?!  
> Il tuo dannata- ~ Your damned-  
> pazzo ~ crazy  
> Spero di vederti presto ~ I hope to see you soon
> 
> edit 19/11/17: I know it's likely wrong/odd and I plan change it to italics of the intended meaning :)


	16. Soda Puddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long. I change my mind a lot about whether to continue this story or not; sometimes I'm determined to keep on writing, and other times I'm bewildered at where to go with it or don't feel motivated/inspired at all. This chapter has been written in snippets over the past months, edited in some spots and not in others, and chopped and changed, so I'm sorry if it has mistakes or lacks sense.

**Still Saturday. Except, 2:56 pm**

**Near Brooklyn Public Library**

“Still no one,” Jake says through a toothy grin as he pretends to pose for a picture, “a lot of judgy locals, though.” 

Charles clicks the shutter button on the department-issued smartphone with an excited smile. “What do you mean? They’re just jealous.” 

“Bring the phone in so we can pretend to look at it,” Jake says, losing the smile. Boyle does so, tapping the screen when it’s in reach to survey the picture. 

A woman walking past scoffs at the supposed tourists, expensive-looking morning brew in hand. 

“Good morning also. Do you New Yorkers take any car’mel in your coffee?” Jake announces in what’s supposed to be a Montana accent that comes off too southern. 

“Your smile’s coming off a little fake in this one, Jake,” Charles says, “but the lighting is spot-on.” 

“Of course the smile’s coming off fake, it _is_ fake,” the brunet scoffs, adjusting his ‘I Heart NY’ hat to survey the passersby. “Why are you actually taking photos, anyway? It’s from an investigation, you shouldn’t post them anywhere.” 

“I know,” Charles shrugs, adjusting his Empire State Building t-shirt where it sits under a jacket. “I’m going to download them to my own phone to keep as memories. The good ones might even go in my twenty-sixteen fourth-quarter scrapbook.” 

“It’s quarterly? I thought your scrapbooks were bi-annual, Charles, bi-annual,” Jake says, snatching the selfie stick back. He puts on an even worse fake smile, all teeth and crinkled nose. Boyle nudges Jake’s shoulder to shift the camera angle. 

Jake sees the guy coming from a mile away; probably still in high school, t-shirt and no jacket making him appear out of place in the chilly weather, but really, it’s the bolt cutters that stand out. The intensity of Jake’s smile increases in anticipation. 

The kid runs up the steps outside the library, pausing to clip the ~~probably~~ first-ever department-issued selfie stick. Boyle gasps in offended shock, rushing to save the phone. The kid continues to run away, pricey sneakers beating the pavement as he bounds around the corner. Jake throws off the disgusting hat to chase after the perp, grin perhaps a little too maniacal for the situation. 

The disadvantage to this being a kid, however, is that the air in Brooklyn seems to be lacking today. Jake still has the kid in sight, but isn’t gaining on him. They run around the block, up 94th Street and down 3rd Avenue and man, Jake should’ve picked better shoes than the cheapo ones in lost and found. As the kid runs past a bagel store, something like adrenalin or the smell of boiled bread gets to the detective. He closes the gap as they turn another corner, getting close enough to snatch the bolt cutters. The kid whirls around, sputtering in indignation. 

“You’re crazy, man, it was only a selfie stick,” he says. 

“It’s nine selfie sticks, actually. You’re under arrest for destruction of property and public nuisance,” Jake says between lungfuls of air, making an inhuman noise to breathe in before reciting the kid’s rights. “Did you have to run so far?” 

**4:11 pm**

**99th Precinct**

“Why did you have to clip so many selfie sticks?” Jake whines at the kid he now knows to be Chris Williamson-Clark, who’s waiting for his mother to finish work to pick him up. “So much paperwork,” Jake elaborates when Chris raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s a statement. About consumerism. Narcissism. It’s also pretty funny to watch ’em scramble like, ‘Oh no, who killed my selfie stick? I thought the New York City was nice’. Hilarious,” Chris says with a shrug, adjusting his grey tracksuit jacket. 

Jake gives the kid a sidelong glance, finishing up filling in all the boxes on the report. He feels better to be rid of the tourist gear, while Boyle feels even better that the phone survived the fall. Jake can hear him murmuring with excitement about the scrapbook from across the bullpen. Rosa is answering a hostile call to the Nine-Eight about her current fraud case, right eye twitching as she deals with their inane questions. 

“This is why you became a police officer, huh? Busting people clipping selfie sticks?” Chris says, shifting in the car pulled up next to Jake’s desk. 

The detective snorts. “Um, no. _Die Hard_ , duh.” 

“Really?” Chris says, one eyebrow raised, and Jake doesn’t like what he’s insinuating. “Because I heard some of the guys in uniforms laughing about how you caught the wrong guy for arson last week. Doesn’t sound very _Die Hard_ to me.” 

“Beat cops,” Jake says, looking off into the middle distance with an air of cinematic defiance. _Seriously? I got the right perp in the end. And the department isn’t even being sued for wrongful arrest-_ he thinks. “You’ll find that case is actually closed, off to court soon. And one day I’ll get my _Die Hard_ franchise moment.” 

“Isn’t this divulging information or something, with the case?” Chris ponders. 

“Nuh-uh,” Jake says shortly, getting back to the paperwork. It turns out it was only Chris cutting the selfie sticks; every disgruntled tourist identified the student as their assailant. One girl even punched Chris for murdering her Hello Kitty selfie stick, but he still got away. 

Jake resolves to finish this paperwork, send Chris back to his mom, and wait for the cool, gritty cases to roll in. Gonna, one hundred percent. Just like he’s going to save up more money and get his own place again soon. He hopes. 

**Sunday, 11:09 am**

**Gina’s apartment**

“M’kay, Jake, you know you’re a BFFL, but I’m gonna have to ask you to scoot,” Gina announces, clapping her hands impatiently. 

Jake opens one eye, only to be met with aqua-hued darkness. He paws at the sleeping bag until it vacates his vision, only to be blinded by waves of natural light. The curtains are wide open; new instalments since Gina moved into his old apartment made of solid mauve fabric that’s actually kinda nice. 

She also got the walls repainted from rotten eggshell to ‘snow ballet’, a white with a ‘hoarfrost sheen’. Jake has been describing things as ‘hoarfrost’ - incorrectly - ever since Gina explained. 

“It’s only like eight o’clock, _and_ , I don’t have to work today,” the detective mumbles, hands raised to shield his eyes from the light. 

“It’s ten past eleven, _and_ , I’ve got a friend coming over, so you need to go somewhere else for a few hours,” Gina explains, checking her hair in the mirror on the wall above the couch. She hasn’t replaced the sofa yet, so Jake is partially sunken into the crevice of the aged, over-stuffed leather every time he sleeps. Unless he rolls onto the floor of course, which has happened. Several times. 

“I thought we had a code for ‘booty call, get out’-” Jake begins, mumbling. 

“You suggested a bunch but they were all references to movies I haven’t seen. We won’t need to use them, anyway,” the assistant says, rolling her eyes and pawing at one of the waves she’s curled into her hair to fan slightly off her face. 

“I could-” Jake starts, but cuts himself off at Gina’s raised eyebrow. “Yeah, you’re right. But if it’s not a booty call, why do I have to go?” the detective reels the subject in, only half out of the sleeping bag. 

Gina waves her hands in front of her face as if to destress. She lowers her hands to look directly at Jake, clasping her hands together in front of her collarbone. 

“Jaron is coming over for a catch-up and disaster strikes when you’re around each other. Opposing winds,” the brunette says and gestures, palms down and facing each other, “updraft, pshh. Supercell,” she concludes, fingers meshed together. “The universe disagrees with such an alliance, so I’m going to roll with that.” 

Jake pouts at this, struggling out of the sleeping bag but only managing to flop to the floor. His hair feels matted and his eyes are already tired of the sunlight. And he’s going to have to vacate the apartment soon.

“I’d prefer not to have a supercell in this apartment now that it’s furnished like a responsible adult lives here and not an eight-year-old with a credit card,” Gina says, releasing her hands from each other to brush at her eyelashes. 

“Why here, anyway? Why not go out?” Jake mumbles as he worms out of the sleeping bag once and for all. He collects up his legs to cross them haphazardly, picking at the pilling on the cheap flannel material. 

“I’m going to get sandwiches from that place around the corner, bring ’em back here, and pretend I made them. That hospital bill from Jaron getting punched by Lisa and then that other dude was hectic.” 

Jake cringes at this, reshuffling his sock-clad feet on the floorboards. “I can’t go to work, they’ll think I’m crazy; it’s a Sunday, and they’ll know I’m not working today.” Guilt prods at his mind over the financial instability Jaron implied yesterday; no band, no café job, plus the hospital bills- 

Gina gives him a withering look. “Then you’ll promise to be civil? Because this is your one chance not to destroy the apartment,” she says, holding up a finger in warning. 

The detective grins. “Yep. Can I go back to sleep? Is that cool?” he asks, ready to snuggle back into the sleeping bag. Though he’s wide awake - what with the midday sun blinding him - he’s pretty sure he could do it. 

“If you’re staying, you’re getting lunch, roomie,” Gina answers. “And then you’re searching the web for apartment again. Just because someone got murdered there doesn’t disqualify it.” 

Jake whines at this, standing from the couch and raising his arms to stretch. “But if what if my life becomes a tv-movie and a ghost appears?” he asks, then realises. “I’d have to solve the crime and avenge the murder-ee’s death. And the killers happen to be taking hostages in a mall on Christmas-” 

**11:32 am, Gina’s street**

Jaron’s late. Gina said eleven thirty, which is reasonable, even for a Sunday. He’s not nocturnal. But his alarm didn’t work because someone tripped the power over in the middle of the night, resetting the time. And, his phone is dead, too. That part’s his fault. 

He rushes around the final corner onto the final street and runs into someone ducking out of a sandwich shop. The guy is taller than him - isn’t everyone? - and luckily the sandwiches are in a plastic bag. 

“Sorry,” Jaron says, stepping back. He half-expects to be yelled at, half-expects to be ignored. 

“That’s fine- oh. It’s you,” the guy turns, the NYPD logo on his windbreaker now evident. 

“Me?” the guitarist asks, pretending he doesn’t recognise Detective Peralta. 

“Yes, you, Jaron,” Jake says, ignoring the glare he gets for it. “I’d know that stupid green jacket anywhere. And, y’know, if you want to evade the law, tattoos don’t help,” he says, gaze trailing to the rose on Jaron’s hand. 

“I’m not trying to evade the law. And back off, stop looking at my hands,” Jaron protests, stuffing them into the pockets of his jeans. 

“I wasn’t- whatever. I’m getting sandwiches for you, so you can be nice to me,” Jake huffs, beginning to walk off. 

Jaron frowns at this dazed for a second before jogging to catch up. “Wait, what?” 

Jake sighs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, brown eyes rolling with vigour. “I’m crashing at Gina’s place because my ex-girlfriend kicked me out, which, whatever, buh-bye, don’t want a lame roof over my head anyway. So as trade for staying, I’m getting the sandwiches for lunch,” he explains. 

“Oh,” the younger says. He thought Detective Peralta had made a mistake; it’d almost be nice of Jake to get the sandwiches, but he doubts it was voluntarily. Despite not being the one with a gun, Jaron has no doubt that Gina is in charge in most places. 

“What, no, ‘That’s ridiculous, I hate you, go die’?” Jake asks. “You told me I’m ruining your life, yesterday. I’d at least say ‘I hope you step in a puddle’.” 

“No. Sorry about that. I was just really angry about that dumbass with the milkshake,” Jaron’s frown morphs into a smile. “Besides, I can deal with lunch. You’ll probably get sent to your room if you bitch at me, anyway.” 

The detective gives an affronted gasp, dodging a passerby with a dramatic wave of his free hand. “That might- maybe be what would happen if I had my own room there. But Gina would never let me into her room; she knows I’d light every scented candle and burn her custom unicorn throw-blanket by accident.” 

“And who would be the arsonist, then?” Jaron asks with a little too much venom he didn’t intend on. 

After a beat, Jake laughs. “That’d be the end of my career as a cop, and then I’d wait for a few years till I’m called back to the force to solve a case no one can crack,” he says, spotting something on the pavement. “Whoa-” 

He shoulder-barges Jaron, almost sending the shorter man sprawling. Jaron keeps his footing, but one finds a dip in the pavement, filled with someone’s spilled soda. 

“Ew, gross. What was that for?” he snaps, regretting agreeing to lunch. And they’re only thirty feet from Gina’s apartment building, too. His own place might be dingy and possibly mouldy, but at least there’s no pesky detectives, usually. 

“Puddle,” Jake grins, triumphant.

“It’s _soda_ , you jerk,” Jaron sighs. “You’re such a hazard. Do birds fall from the sky when you visit the park?” He shakes off his drenched sneaker, cringing as the carbonated, sugary drink infiltrates his sock. 

“A dead one fell and hit me in the head once, back in high school. I was wearing a beanie, so it didn’t touch me, but Emilia Olsson saw it and almost vomited in the hedge,” Jake shrugs, turning to walk up the steps. Jaron nods, thinking the detective would look good in a beanie - a plain one, as opposed to whatever trash he probably wore in high school. 

The apartment building has an elevator, thank goodness, and the trip up is comfortably silent. Jaron knocks on the door to Gina’s apartment. The detective shakes his head and turns the handle, waltzing in. 

“Gots the sammiches, and also, a BFFL of yours,” he announces and slings the bag of food up onto the kitchen counter. 

“BFFL? I’m touched,” Jaron places a hand over his heart, closing the door after him. “Also, twelve years old, apparently.” 

Gina, by some stroke of magic, has managed to dress up navy pants and a taupe cardigan over a pink t-shirt. It’s a mystery. She turns from getting plates out of a cupboard and places them next to the sandwiches with a clang. 

“Whoa, you two ran into each other? And no supercell?” she asks. 

Jaron frowns, unzipping his neon green jacket and shrugging it off. “I- no? There’s no hurricane,” he says. “Oh, you mean a fight. Well, I did get pushed into stepping into a puddle of soda?” 

“And you threw the shoe away?” Gina asks through a forced, cringing smile. 

“Um,” Jaron hesitates, gaze dropping to the once-grey, now-brown toe of his right shoe. “ _Può essere-_ ” 

“God, no. Throw that out the window.” 

“I’m saving up for a better apartment, Gina, I can’t throw away shoes. I’ll wash it,” Jaron protests, wincing as his sock squelches against the carpet. “Sorry.” 

The assistant waves a ‘shoo’ motion. “Throw it in the sink or something, at least, _please_. You’re so lucky my wolf rug I ordered isn’t here yet, because if you ruined that, I’m afraid our friendship would have to end.” 

And so the trio end up standing around the kitchen, Jaron with one shoe on and the other devoid even of a sock. The tainted shoe and sock are in the bathroom sink, soaking in tap water. He munches on the ham-lettuce-relish concoction while Gina recounts her week. Jake has snagged her laptop - he’s already wolfed down lunch - to scroll through apartments to rent, at her direction. 

“Sure, selfie sticks get in the way, but I’m not a selfie-crazed freak, and I usually don’t allow other people to feature in my selfies, anyway. But really, if you’re gonna go travelling, you can’t just bring the one selfie stick and think it’ll be fine,” she explains. “Prospect Heights is too expensive,” Jake mutters. It turns out he’d thrown on a windbreaker over pyjamas, and has now discarded the jacket to resume his state of barely-awake, all messy hair and hunched posture. 

“Maybe try Flatbush, or East Flatbush? That’s not too far from here,” the guitarist pokes at the ‘refine results’ section of the webpage. Jake and Gina are both leaning against the counter while Jaron hovers in the open space of the kitchen, toes pawing at the linoleum. 

“Then the dance competition I was going to go to tonight? Cancelled!” Gina chimes in again, hand flat on the counter. 

“Bullshit,” Jaron says, almost coughing out sandwich. “But- why?” 

“Dunno. Just got a new text to the chain; ‘canned, try again next month’. But then it’ll be too cold for rooftop hip-hop,” Gina says, gesturing emphatically. Lost. Hopeless. Never gonna dance again. 

Jaron shrugs, “Unless you get thermal workout clothes.” 

“There’s not much available in Flatbush…” the detective mutters.

“Now that’s an idea,” Gina says, pointing a manicured nail at Jaron. She turns to survey the laptop screen and hums in disapproval. “Here,” she says, and clicks rapidly in the ‘refine results’ bar. Jake shakes his head in confusion. Jaron is rather disinterested, since he knows everything that comes up will be well above his own budget. 

“Any plans for Thanksgiving this Thursday, Gina?” he asks, picking at the long sleeve of his shirt. 

“Working, just like last year, except hopefully less of a disaster. Some bag of flour or something shut down the precinct.” 

Jaron raises an eyebrow at this. “A sentient bag of flour took over command, shut down the local power grid, and locked all the doors, trapping everyone until midnight?” 

Gina shrugs. “Jake was left in charge for a few hours and everything went to shit.” 

The guitarist hums, half-squinting at Jake. “So, my theory, minus the malevolence. How’d you manage that, anyway?” 

“My crowd-control skills were a little rusty,” Jake says after an indignant squawk, snapping the laptop shut in defeat. “Plus, there was like a dozen lawyers there. Defense attorneys are the _worst_ , most of the time.” 

“What about you?” the assistant interjects. “Got Thanksgiving plans?” 

Jaron abandons the shirt-sleeve to fold his arms. “This Thanksgiving… I got kicked from ’Necks yesterday evening over the phone, so they snagged some gig at Maria’s Tavern when the other band dropped out. Said after they told the manager I was gone, she welcomed them with open arms. Ego boost of the century. No family dinner because my brother and his fiancée have already got one planned for all their friends. Rest of the family are staying in, as far as I know.” 

Jake sighs. “Sounds like things are just going your way lately,” he says with a sympathetic smile. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find some other random café and mediocre band. Worst-case, I move back to Jersey and live in a caravan on my parents’ lawn,” Jaron says. “Admittedly, their caravan is nicer than my apartment, so, I’ll only suffer in a loss of dignity.” 

“Of living in Jersey,” the brunet nods, solemn. 

Jaron laughs. “Yeah, and I’d have to hope no-one calls the cops thinking I’m a robber. Again.” 

“I haven’t heard this story,” Gina chimes in, leaning on the benchtop, a hand under her chin. 

“Not much to it,” the guitarist says, scratching at the rose inked into the back of his hand. “I moved back there for most semester breaks in college, and got locked out one time… I can’t pick locks, so I thought I’d scale the the lattice on the side of the house up to my window. The neighbours - who still hate me to this day from my attempts to learn how to play drums - cops showed up after a little while and I fell into the shrubs; Baldassare came home while they were dragging me out of the rosebush by an ankle.” 

Gina and Jake laugh, lessening the embarrassment creeping its pinkish way onto Jaron’s face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes off their cackles. “As if nothing like that has ever happened to you guys.” 

Jake grins and goes to speak, but Gina notices and cuts him off with a wave of a hand. 

“Jake isn’t allowed within in five hundred feet of Taylor Swift,” she says. 

“Do I want to know?” Jaron asks. 

“It- that was a complete misunderstanding on the part of the security team,” Jake shakes his head and pushes off the countertop to stand up straight. As the detective continues his story, Jaron finds himself oddly relaxed. He doesn’t maintain rivalries with people that don’t deserve it - Bert from high school being one of them - and thinks he ought to reconsider the mild hate for Peralta. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading (I mean, if anyone still does). I feel really bad that this is almost never updated nowadays, because I did used to have so much fun writing it. I won't say this is abandoned, but I'm aware it's extremely slow going. Again, I'm really sorry about that.


	17. Regulars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think that I won't write for this fic anymore (sadly) and then other times I'm compelled to write random snippets; and so sometimes those snippets meld together into a chapter, haha. 
> 
> As far as explanations go: I'm just not really in the fandom as much as I was when this began so I guess the lack of motive/inspiration stems from that. Maybe I can blame the themes (i.e. what themes, haha)?

**Tuesday, 9:44pm**

**Vibes basement bar, Brooklyn**

There’s something freeing about being in a public place on the first of December and not being drowned in tinsel and fake-greenery. Jake isn’t a hundred percent sure why Vibes hasn’t put up decorations yet, like every mall in existence, but he’s not complaining. He’d only complain about how tonight will probably go with no parental figure to keep the gang in check. With Ava born, Terry is overtired and thus has declined a night out drinking. Rosa is a force of chaos, Gina is a more eccentric and less violent kind of the same thing, and Charles has wacky ideas. Amy is responsible, sure, but the more she cringes as Gina rolls through the Stages of Drunk Amy, the less likely it seems she’ll stay that way. 

Drunkards sway by the mini-stage, warbling along to _Zombie_ by the Cranberries with the solo singer and her backing track. She’s talented; a nice change from the band before whose drummer couldn’t keep time. 

It’s a nice place. Sure, it looks like it only gets cleaned for inspections, but if it weren’t for the hired cleaners, the nine-nine would be the same. The gang have crowded around a table on the wall side of the seating area clutter, far from the door and further from the singer. Close to the bar, though. 

The singer finishes the song to a cacophony of applause and an enthusiastic whoop. She grins, takes a drink from her water bottle, and clicks on her phone to find the next backing track. It’s nice listening, but Jake isn’t drunk enough to dance to it, yet.

Rosa has commandeered the conversation, going through a new movie with epic gore that’s ‘as realistic as Hollywood gets’. Jake finds his gaze drifting from the his friends to looking over the rest of the patronage. 

The familiar synth of _Don’t You Want Me_ rouses some of the dancers making their way back to seats, turning on their heels and rushing back to the dancefloor. One whoops, and more begin singing along. 

People at tables snack on hot chips or pretzels, drinks ranging from neat spirits to elaborate cocktails, but averaging the staples of beer and wine. 

The hallway staircase that fans out to be the entrance of the bar - downstairs, at least - is bordered by hanging multicoloured light bulbs. They don’t count as Christmas decorations, since they’ve been here since the first time Jake visited because of that noise complaint, and have more colours than just red and green. 

Underneath the lights, on each wall from the corridor, are bulletin boards plastered with flyers and posters. Daily specials, ads from musicians that play here and ones that don’t, clubs, music lessons, martial arts classes, band audition calls, staff birthdays… 

People enter and leave Vibes, stumbling down or up the stairs, passing by the boards without notice, except for one man. Jake squints. He knows that neon green jacket and the melting circlet tattoo that hovers above it. 

The detective winces. He knows it’s no fun to go to places you have bad memories with; Virgin Necks still play here, according to the string of photos above the bar that have each regular musician/group on there. The picture is new, with both Jaron and the guy who was arrested for drug-possession missing from it. 

Across the bar, a rose-inked hand reaches to the top of the bulletin board and snatches a slice of paper with a phone number. He stuffs it into a jacket pocket and reaches again, flicking up one flyer to get at another. He takes a contact strip from that, too. 

Jaron has gotten his hair cut from a mop to- well, the same thing, but shorter. Just long enough to still be fluffy, but not enough to really cover his ears. Through the haze of the bar’s chatter and ramped-up-warm AC, Jake wonders if Jaron’s hair is as soft as it looks. 

Gina latches a hand onto Jake’s shoulder, startling him. “Boo,” she says, faking a scare. “Where are we looking?” 

Jake turns in his chair, attention whipping back to the conversation at hand. “Hm? What, yeah, arterial spray on the silver screen,” he proclaims, faking a smile. 

“Dude, I was talking about zombies, not arterial spray,” Rosa says with a frown. From years of knowing her, Jake recognises the slight twinge of disappointment in her voice. 

“Hey! Jaron!” Gina hollers, waving an arm. 

Caruso half-turns, and Jake’s breath gets a little short. Jaron smiles, face clear of butterfly sutures, or band-aids, or rogue locks of hair. He taps two fingers to his brow and mock-salutes. Jake expects the guitarist to wander over, say hello, chat with Gina and co. - and maybe a couple of butterflies take flight in his stomach because of that thought. Or maybe it’s the drinks, or the unsettlingly enthusiastic singing from the drunk people.

Instead, Jaron turns away and leaves the bulletin board to ascend the stairs, trailing up them with his hands in his jacket pockets. 

“Dammit,” Gina says and smacks a hand on the table, rattling glasses. She pouts as she takes a sip of her drink. “Must be busy,” she tells it. 

“Yeah,” Jake says, gaze returning to the empty stairwell. He almost wants to go see what’s up - for Gina, because Jaron is Gina’s friend, and not as evil as the detective once thought - but doesn’t. 

“Next round,” Rosa announces, chair scraping away from the table. It’s not a question, but she gets a few ‘yes’s back, anyway. Charles asks Amy something about stationery, Gina downs the rest of her cocktail, and Jake tunes out. Rosa frowns at him before she walks off to the bar. Again, after years of knowing her, he can decipher it. Concerned. 

-

**Friday, 8:29pm**

**Vibes. Again.**

Vibes is drowning in tinsel. Jake mourns its old ambience. But, at least there’s no Christmas music playing. 

The first Friday night of each month has potentially-regular musicians performing half-hour sets with short turnovers. First, a young duo underwhelmed everyone with original acoustic songs that sound half-finished. Then there was a man who couldn’t sing, let alone dance, and most recently, a decent jazz-rock trio. 

The trio, who - through muttering and glares at each other - admitted to having no group name vacated the stage what feels like ages ago. The table nearby has been bitching about how late the next group is for at least five minutes. 

Jake and co. tried to wheedle the schedule from the bartender as soon as they found out about the nature of the music-night, with forty bucks for whoever could do it. Everyone except Rosa put ten in; she said she didn’t need it.

\- 

“Hey!” Amy fake-cheered. “I’m just such a fan of, uh, this kind of music. This indie, um,” she waved her hand from side-to-side, “stuff. So hard to define genres,” she gave the bartender a thoughtful frown. 

“Yeah? Who’s your favourite at Vibes?” the bartender asked, one eyebrow raised. 

“So many,” Amy faux-gushed. “So many to choose from. I can’t pick. Which is why I wanted to ask, who’s playing next?” 

“It’s guest night. No names until they perform is part of the allure. Or, it’s better than people reading some of the shitty names people pick,” the bartender shrugged. 

Amy smiled. “Like, the next one?” 

The bartender sniffed and opened the glass washer behind the bar. She grabbed the tray and set it on the lower counter. “Did you wanna order something?” 

“No,” Amy said, defeated. It was stupid idea, anyway. 

-

Jake ran at the bar full pelt, almost winding himself upon impact at the top counter. The sleeves of his leather jacket squeaked against the timber as he half-fell on the bar-top. 

“Am I at the right bar?” he asked, not having to feign being short of breath. Maybe the running idea would’ve been better by slowing down upon approach. “Who’s on next?”

The bartender regarded him with an unimpressed, unamused look. “Who’re you looking for?” she replied. 

“Dammit,” Jake wheezed, letting his head fall forward to hit the bar-top. He recoiled, skin resisting detachment. “Yuck, why are bars always sticky?” 

“Because sugar is sticky,” the bartender said and raised a wet cloth, cleaning over that part of the bar, then drying it with another cloth. “Try asking again,” she offered. 

The detective sighed and let his head fall to the timber again. “Can you please tell me who’s on next?” 

“Nope.” 

-

“Hey, would you be able to tell me-?” Charles began after sidling up to the bar. 

“The best-selling margarita is the triple berry one. Weird, I know,” the bartender said through a many-toothed grin as she wiped a spot from a wine glass. 

“Actually, I-” Boyle said. 

“The bathrooms are to your right, on this side,” the bartender gestured to her left. 

“I, uh,” Charles shifted uncomfortably. 

“You know I saw you guys throw money on the table and walk over here one by one?” the bartender asked. “Is that all you wanna know? Who’s on next?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Shouldn’t be too long now,” she answered, checking her watch. “Actually, they’re almost late.” 

-

“Don’t worry, not gonna ask,” Gina raised a placating hand as she approached the bartender. “Just stand here for a minute so it’s like I’m talking to you.” 

The bartender shifted her defensive, arms-crossed stance, frown lightening. 

“Awesome,” Gina said, plonking her phone on the bar-top, call already on speaker. 

“ _Hello? I can barely hear, are you out?_ ” 

“Sure am. Now, pray-tell, kid, you’re playing tonight, right?” she leaned her elbows on the bar to get close to the microphone. 

“ _Ah, you got me. You remembered?_ ” 

“Of course. You said, an audition with a band went well-” 

Jaron scoffed. “ _Yeah, you could say that._ ” 

“You’re in, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter if they’re _meh_ , not everyone can you be as good you,” the assistant rolled her eyes. 

“ _They’re alright, they just don’t get many shows._ ” 

“I’m sure they’ll get more after tonight. Remind me what they’re called, will you, o friend of mine?” 

-

Gina settles back at the table and scoops up the forty bucks. She stuffs the notes into her teal handbag with a satisfied grin. “Cleaned out,” she announces. 

“The band is called ‘Cleaned Out’?” Rosa asks, deadpan. “What, is it a bunch of janitors?” 

“They’re called, ‘Fantastic Jack and the Junkyard Rats’,” the assistant says with a hint of disgust, leaning back from the table. 

“Yeah, right. Give me my ten dollars back,” Amy says, holding out an expectant hand. 

“Nope, don’t think so,” Gina sing-songs. “You can have it back if they show up and I’m wrong. I’m not, by the way. It’s not my fault that the name sucks.” 

“I’ve heard worse. There’s always worse names,” Rosa admits, taking another drink from her beer. “Still not good though.” 

Jake thinks the name is indeed odd; something a ten-year-old came up with. He continues with his own drink and doesn’t chime in. Gina is paying for the few drinks he’ll have, as part of his rent, or something. He’ll pay her back anyway; leave twenty bucks in amongst her many perfume bottles like he did when she did a bagel-run at the precinct the other day. Even if she was only motivated to escape the stench of a perp in holding, who’d hidden in a dumpster trying to evade arrest. 

A blond guy wanders onstage dressed in garish red-and-green plaid; the Christmas theme is never-ending. A plaid-clad bassist sidesteps the trailing cords to walk across. Jake expects the rest of the band - _rats_ , i.e. more than one - to be wearing the same plaid shirts.

Instead, Jaron trails up to the opposite side to the bassist, cradling his guitar. He’s devoid of the jacket, having replaced it with a black-and-white striped long-sleeve shirt. Jake remembers it as the one he was wearing when the group were at Maria’s Tavern, and chuckles. The band was looking for shows, and Jake and his friends for a new haunt. 

A week ago, Jake was sure that every time Gina dragged the group to Vibes, it’d be to see Jaron play. Last night, however, Virgin Necks played and Jaron didn’t. Jake didn’t go; he’d mucked up some paperwork and spent an hour or two trying to fix it. Earlier this evening, he’d given up, and used the math tutorial session to get Sabrina to figure out how to fix the inconsistent mass of seized crack. Somewhere along the line, pounds had been converted to kilograms, and the papers said other things… it still hurts his brain a bit to think about. Sabrina knew how to convert to the organised terror of the metric system, so it’s fixed. 

Jake whirls to face Gina, trying to summon a glare but failing. “You knew because Jaron is playing,” he hisses, one eye squinted. 

The assistant shrugs delicately and pats at her hair as if a locks is out of place. 

“Caruso?” Amy asks, nose wrinkled. “With these guys? I mean, it wasn’t terrible when he’d been with that other band. This one is wearing matching Christmas plaid.” 

“Guys,” Rosa says, “is that?” 

“I guess he’s embracing new opportunities,” Jake supplies. 

“Guys,” Rosa repeats. “Look who’s there, now,” she says, deathly slow. 

Four heads turn to the stage. Amy looks disgusted. Gina is horrified. Boyle squints. Theory confirmed, Rosa starts howling with laughter. It’s raucous even above the din of the bar, the final checks from the sound tech, and the Vulture gloating into the microphone about the band’s Vibes debut. 

Jake’s not sure he’s heard Rosa laugh this much since he got tasered at the academy. Now, he stares at the band, dumbstruck. Jaron. In a band with the Vulture. It’s snapped something in his brain; does not compute-

He knows Jaron’s standards for bands must be pretty much ‘if they can play, they’re okay’, to a certain degree, but this- he mustn’t know the Vulture _at all_ if he’s with this band. Jake wants to apologise, because no-one should have to put up with that guy, ever. Virgin Necks weren’t all that great, but they’re better than this, they had to be. He observes with wide-eyed terror as this isn’t a prank. Gina reaches for his hand and holds on for dear life. Rosa continues to laugh. 

-

**9:42pm**

Years ago, Jaron imagined that after finishing a performance, he’d get drunk with his bandmates and party. Nowadays, Jaron doesn’t get drunk like that; the last time had been about a year ago, and that hangover had just made him feel old. Another issue with that old mini-dream is he doesn’t want to drink with his current bandmates. 

The audition several days ago was rushed. It was a lot of, ‘Can you play guitar? Can you play it in time? Cool, you’re considered.’ Pembroke had gone on about how the regular rhythm guitarist just _had_ to go and break his wrist ice-skating, what a goddamn loser. The guy in question, wearing a fedora and a button-up shirt with a dragon on it, had looked disgruntled at that. 

Jaron didn’t recognise any of the other people who showed up for the call, and was so rushed through the audition that he didn’t get time to. The bassist had asked what kind of bet Jaron lost to get that rose tattoo. Jaron lamely said, ‘None’, which ended the conversation. 

The guitarist shakes his head to clear it, glad that the action no longer throws stray locks of hair into his eyes. The cool breeze is harsh enough; winter is nowhere near its full capacity, but New York is experiencing a cold snap at the moment. Or so says the newscaster on the television at the library. Jaron hasn’t been too bored, having to learn half a dozen new songs. Dragon-shirt guy had begrudgingly offered help with learning the original material, but Jaron passed it up. No point wasting time with someone who doesn’t want to actually try to help. 

Jaron would like to say he survived the performance. The cold weather might be a different story. He shivers, wishing he’d brought the parka instead of his green pleather jacket. He grits his teeth and adjusts the guitar case’s strap across his chest, walking away from the door to Vibes. His breath clouds in the air, melting into nothingness. 

“Hey,” a voice startles him, close enough that it can’t be a passerby calling to someone else. 

“Hey, Jake,” Jaron says, blinking in surprise, not bothering to force a smile. “What’s up? Someone molotov a bodega?” 

“Ah, no, don’t think so,” the detective huffs, falling into step as they continue walking. He’s no better dressed for the weather, save for a plain beanie that looks better on him than it has any right to. “I just wanted you to know that you sounded really good.” 

“Thanks,” Jaron says with a small smile, heat rising to his face. It dissipates as he narrows his eyes at Jake. “It was just rhythm and backing vocals,” he relinquishes one hand from the case, “most of the songs were nothing special. You sure you heard the right person?” 

“You’re the best in that band, by far,” Jake waves a hand. “Trust me.” But that sounds way too confident, way too brimming with venom to just be a compliment. 

“Why do I get the feeling it’s not because of the way I played tonight?” 

“No, it is! Also, the Vulture is the absolute worst. So, you’re great, they’re not, ditch them. Please? For my sanity, and Gina’s-” 

Jaron sighs, mood sinking at this. He knows Pembroke is an asshole - he has to be ‘the Vulture’, right? - and the other guys are _eh_ , but. “I can’t, Jake,” he interrupts, free hand scratching at his hair at the base of his skull. “In my great pursuit of the starving artist ideal, I don’t have the extra cash to turn down people who get paid. I’ve got enough from working part-time jobs, for now. I’m looking into getting a new one, I just…” 

“Oh,” the detective coughs, seemingly remembering that money is a thing. “No, yeah. I understand. Are you- are you doing okay?” 

“I’ve still got my Wednesday solo gig in Newark, so, yeah. For now,” Jaron offers a weak smile. 

“Cool,” Jake says, then repeats it a couple of times. “I’m staying with Gina at the moment, so I guess I can relate. Kind of. Well, not really, but it’s still not fun. She has spontaneous dance practices in her kitchen every other hour.”

“Three AM is the perfect time for dance moves, what are you talking about?” 

Jake chuckles and shakes his head. 

The guitarist sniffs and swipes at his nose. “If you think I was such a standout, you should visit next Wednesday,” he says, expecting an excuse or apology. _Whoops, no, not worth the effort. We’re not friends,_ , or, _You know that I have a real job, right,_ that kind of thing. 

“If I’m not working,” Jake smiles, “then I’m sure Gina would let me tag along.” 

Jaron elbows the detective with a sly grin. “See you there, Jake. This pile of scrap is me,” he nods to the motorcycle wedged into a metered spot behind a tiny hatchback. 

“Cool,” Jake mutters again. “I’d better- I’ve got to walk back. Split a cab with the others,” he looks down the street, forlorn at how far they’d walked. Jaron turns to look, to; it’s not that far, really, but enough so that they can’t hear the cluster of bars and clubs that way. 

“I hope you survive the trek,” Jaron drawls as he undoes the helmet strap from the motorcycle’s stand. 

“I hope you find a better band,” Jake says with a smile that implies it’s at least partly a joke. He turns on his heel after only a moment’s hesitation and briskly walks off. 

A gust of freezing wind reminds Jaron to stop staring, so he yanks the helmet on and ties it up. He fishes for his keys and starts the engine, hoping the drive home will get this stupid smile off his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter was okay & didn't have too many mistakes (it's unedited, as per usual).
> 
> I have some scenes planned for the next chapter/s and I really _do_ want to finish this story, so hopefully I'll write them sooner than normal (?). Maybe?


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